
Class. 



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Copyright ]^°. 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



#olben i^ob anb Hilit^ 



R. W. GILBERT 




BOSTON 
RICHARD G. BADGER 

1908 



Copyright 1908 by R. W. Gilbert 



All Rights Reserve/^ 



ll-IBRARY of GONG'fiESSjj 
f wo CoDies HiXaUaLi. i 

JUM 1 1908 
1 ^,^.gSl:'.X.,,g^,.,..,. 



"75 3^13 
,X V^ ^^ 



^Atf Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A, 



TO MT MOTHER 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/goldenrodliliesOOgilb 





CONTENTS 








PAGE 


/ Rest in God ...... 11 


Two Poets 












12 


I am Content . 












13 


A Song . 












13 


An Easter Litany 












14 


The Multitude 












IS 


To my Gods . 












IS 


Thanksgiving . 












17 


An Interpretation 












19 


The Mendicant 












24 


The Sentinel . 












26 


Helper of Men 












29 


The New 












30 


A Counsel 












31 


A Tribute 












31 


For Power 












33 


The Truant . 












34 


Love is too Toung . 












3S 


Compensation . 












36 


Quatrain 












37 


For Inspiration 












37 


The Better Part 












38 


To the Geared Destiny 










38 


She Looked Across the Morning 


Sea 






41 


The Sign of the Setting Sun 








41 


Foiled 








42 


The Ballad of a Tri 


le Loi 


ler 








43 



Fate 

Christmas 

This Alone the Wise Man Knows 

Love Comes and Goes 

What Have I to do with the Endl 

the Books 
The Looking-Glass . 
To a Toung Amorist 
The Perpetual Procession 
A Paradox 
Gifts . 
A Greeting 
Boy, Boy 
Thanks . 

The Unconscious M 
The Mother . 
Lord Jesus, Wise and Dt 
The Girl Thought 
Oh, Wonderful 
Antique Lovers 
A Lamentation 
An Evening Hymn 
Milk for Babes 
Fortune . 
Friend Death . 

I Have Seen the Boy Go Fighting 
I Am the Poet 

The Psalmist Saith, My Days are L,t 
A Woman's Desire 
The Homekeeper 
Riders . 



Wa 



r/z of 



Flower 



The Masker . 






87 


For Five and Thirty Tears Beneath the Mould . 89 


Lords 94 


Mary, Mary, Mother of God 






95 


If the Brawnless Poets Give T h 


ee F''. 


Ill 


96 


What, Saith the Preacher 






97 


A Christmas Ballad 






99 


America 






100 


The Doves go Flying Homr 






102 


Leadings 






103 


Dear God, Strong God 






104 


Greetings 






104 


John, a Baptist 






105 


The Poet 






107 


Fortune Hunters 






108 


Fame and the Poet . 






109 


A Prophet 






110 


Forest Love 






. 113 


I Heard a Cry in the Morning 






114 


The Deathless Urge. 






115 


A Portrait 






116 


A Prayer 






117 


Love and Touth 






118 


Brothers 






119 


Winter s Here, Nearly 






119 


Jane and I . 






122 


The Dead Senator . 






123 


Nicodemus 






126 


Winter .... 






129 


My Days 






129 


Song .... 






130 



Jesus and Nathan . 






. 131 


Love, it is not Much to Say 




. 138 


Old Pierre and Lisette 




. 139 


Not an Apology 






. 140 


The Call of the Girl 






. 142 


Christmas 






144 


The Sweet of Life . 






. 145 


In 1865 






. 146 


A Saint 






. , 147 


Morning in Autumn 






. 148 


SONNETS 





The Adoration of the Madonna 

Amnon and Tamar . 

LFI Sonnets . . . . 



153 
155 
161 



GOLDEN ROD AND LILIES 



I REST IN GOD 

I rest in God, and patiently abide, 
Like the young willows by the waterside; 
My roots reach out for Him, my leaves expand 
To catch His sun and dew on every hand. 

I rest in God as waterlilies float 

Upon the quiet surface of a moat; 

My leaves lie flatwise drinking up the cool 

And healing waters of His silent pool. 

I rest in God as little fishes swim 
In the great sea, my paths are all in Him. 
If He should fail, my being would go dry 
And wither up beneath the glaring sky. 

I rest in God, and loaf beneath the trees 
Acquiring certain subtle masteries; 
If I made haste would I sooner arrive ? 
And if I wait, will He then cease to strive ? 

I rest in God, I stay at home and dwell 
In perfect safety by the mouth of hell; 
While He remains my purposes are laws. 
When He deserts me I shall lose my cause. 

I rest in God, I eat and drink in Him, 
And tackle life with unabated vim; 
I beg the moon, and halloo to the sun 
To stay his course as once at Ajalon. 

I rest in God, I feel my oats indeed. 
Heir and co-heir of an immortal breed, 
The other gentlemen may duck and whine, 
I cock my hat and dub myself divine. 

11 



I rest in God, like my good master, Walt, 
And let the wincing world go by default; 
Like him, a poet of democracy, 
I love it well, but it must come to me. 

I rest in God, and hold myself aloof 
From the least dream of praise or of reproof; 
If God is suited, why should I complain. 
And strive to regulate His sun and rain ? 

I rest in God, I take it as it comes 
And hanker for no far milleniums. 
They probably will have their defects too. 
And turn, like ours, upon the point of view. 

I rest in God like the small saucy birds 

Whose throats choke up with glad and grateful 

words, 
And I would sing like them till night shall fall 
And gently hush the music of us all. 

TWO POETS 

One played amid the stars and caught 
Some random sparks of heavenly fire. 

And one in God's red furnace wrought 
The miracle of man's desire; 

One prayed and posed and walked apart 
With mind and raiment undefiled. 

And one upgathered to his heart 
Harlot and publican and child; 

One long outlived the early spite 

And full of honors died, and one 
Crawled to his cross in the morning light, 

Hated and cursed and spat upon. 

12 



I AM CONTENT 

I am content: 
Fate mixed the bitter and the sweet, 
And bade me drink and bade me eat 

Until my thirst for life was spent. 

I am content: 
Fate stood apart and watched me eat - 
Gag at the bitter, lick the sweet, 

And wonder what the mixture meant. 

I am content: 
I'll fold my napkin, take the street, 
For other inns and other meat, 

With appetite and will unbent. 

I am content: 
Fate mixed the bitter and the sweet. 
But the sole will wherewith I eat 

Is mine, not Fate's and I — consent. 

H 

SONG 

Brown leaves at falltime 
And green leaves to the spring, 

A long year is starting 
When you hear the medlark sing. 

But when brown leaves whisper 

And quail pipe low, 
The long year is tired 

And nestles in the snow. 



13 



AN EASTER LITANY 

Ye green things of the earth, who have waited for the 

spring, 
Ye tender buds and pretty herbs, who haste to blossoming, 
Ye cherry blooms and apple boughs, ye thickets of the 

plum, 
How do ye all make merry because your Lord hath come! 

Ye lilac sprays at my window, how freshly ye appear. 
And how goodly is your fragrance at the outstart of the 

year; 
Ye little birds that dash about too occupied to sing, 
How are ye pleased to read the signs that prophesy the 

spring. 

Ye grasses at my doorstep, and ye who fringe the lane, 
How do ye laugh and whisper that your Lord hath come 

again; 
Oh, ye have waited patiently and kept your souls in peace 
Because ye knew that Christ should come to give you glad 

release. 

Ye chickens in my poultry-yard, ye stabled horse and 

kine. 
With what a homely joy ye greet the messenger divine; 
In palaces and cottages alike the year begins 
And men arise who erst were dead in trespasses and sins. 

Oh, God is good to all of us, or beast or bird or flower, 
And we should each adore Him according to our power; 
The green things they must bow themselves and lead in 

silent prayer, *> 
While we do praise aloud and laud our Christ, the de- 
^^ _ ^ bonair. 

14 : .. . I ^ 



Now Christ the Lord Is risen, I cheerily shout and say, 

And the lilacs here beside me tell it in a better way; 

The birds stop building long enough to chirrup, Christ is 

risen, 
And the sown seeds say it softly as they struggle from their 

prison. 

Ye green things of the earth, who have waited very long, 
Ye birds and beasts, who patiently have suffered every 

wrong, 
Ye men and women, high and low, ye merry children 

small. 
Praise Christ, I say, on this dear day, who rose to save 

you all. 

THE MULTITUDE 

A gracious preacher spake; a pause 
Occurred in the deep and tender tones; 

I waited for the warm applause, 

And lo, the people reached for stones. 

A poet sang as the sun went down 

Of light in death and joy in loss; 
I looked for praise and the laurel crown, 

And lo, they haled a wooden cross. 



TO MY GODS 



To my gods, the debonair 
Princes of the earth and air, 
I would sing one little song: 
** Life is love and art is long." 

15 



Kissing is a perfect pleasure 
Satisfying overmeasure, 
Artistry is slow and painful, 
Hunger-bitten and disdainful; 

Love is full of life and laughter, 
With no salt tears springing after, 
Art's a teacher stern and old, 
Slow to praise and quick to scold. 

Merry gods, who jest among 
Boon companions ever young, 
Have ye any wit above, 
" Art is long but life is love ? " 

Are there symbols to express 
Half your hearty friendliness; 
How ye walk from day to day 
Talking with me in the way. 

Teasing, laughing, lightly sneering, 
Arrogant and domineering, 
Whipping me along the road 
With sarcasm for a goad ? 

Happy gods, I do rely 
On your boundless phantasy 
To complete the work begun 
Ere ye smother up the sun. 

Life is love, and what is art 
To a fellow with a heart 
Quite brim full and running over 
With the red blood of a lover ? 



16 



Brief, my gods, our wooing days. 
Brief the beauty which we praise, 
Brief the soft lips' tender pressure 
Satisfying over measure. 

Art is long; when I grow old. 
Withered up and wan and cold, 
I will sternly heed its lesson. 
Saved for a convenient season; 

Till that time, my debonair 
Princes of the earth and air. 
Give me just to know the blisses 
Hidden in one woman's kisses. 

To my gods, the gift-bringers, 
I would make one little verse — 
All I know of right and wrong — 
"Life is love and art is long." 



THANKSGIVING 

For all the widespread life of men. 
For Nature's glory round them set, 

For poetry that now and then 

Finds its articulation yet, 

We thank thee, Lord. 

For hearty human loves and hates. 
Small bickerings and heedless mirth. 

The trivial round of vulgar fates 
That makes up half the life of earth, 
We thank thee, Lord. 



17 



For homely, lusty, low delights, 

The common lot of man and beast, — 

Food, drink, untroubled sleep o' nights, 
For mind and body undiseased, 
We thank thee. Lord. 

For all the love of sex and kind. 

For reproductive strength and grace, 

For all the hidden girds that bind 
Us to our homes and to the race. 
We thank thee, Lord. 

For the large liberty of art 

Wherein a man may work at ease, 

For privilege to bear a part 

In building up this house of peace. 
We thank thee. Lord. 

For the deep poetry of things, 

Which he who runs may surely read, 

For the sweet sense of God that springs 
In human hearts at utmost need, 
We thank thee. Lord. 

Not for the things of common praise. 
The pious people's pride and boast. 

But for these ordinary days. 
These homely things we love the most. 
We thank thee. Lord. 



AN INTERPRETATION 

One thing is certain. God is at the core 
Of human life, and at its utmost rind 
The same, eternal and invisible. 
He is the engineer; His fingers grip 
The levers of the universe. Nothing 
So small He does not mind, nor great He does 
Not rule to His own universal ends. 

If this is so; if God has a firm hold 
On all our seeming loose and muddled lives, 
Why may not we ourselves let go and trust 
Entirely to His everlasting grip ? 
Why spend our days striving to straighten out 
Our knotted problems numberless, our twisted wills, 
The adverse pulls of spirit and of flesh ? 
Why may not we for once and all let go 
Our hold, giving God's purposes free course 
In every part and instant of our lives ? 

Say, friend, if you to-day feel safe and sound, 
If there is peace within, freedom without, 
If you have got a good and lasting hold 
On all your heart desires, I have no word 
For you, — pass on in peace and may the God 
Of peace perfect you wholly. If, upon 
The other hand, you are as I have said 
But half a man, a maimed, distorted image of 
The God who made you, strong to wish but weak 
To will, choosing the better part 
But ever slipping back into the old 
And well-worn ruts of sin and selfishness — 
To you, friend, I would speak. 

19 



Some time ago 
There lived in a far country of the earth, 
In a small backwoods village, a young man 
Of humble birth, by trade a carpenter 
As was his sire before him. You might see 
His bench beneath the olives where the youth 
Made yokes and plows, tables and stools. 
And such like articles of common use. 
Well, there were many carpenters throughout 
The land, and there have lived unnumbered ones 
Since then; but this young man somehow has gotten 
Himself remembered while the rest have perished with 
Their works; for he, you know, was odd — his folks 
And friends said crazy, — never mind, he got 
Remembered, also his age and land, 
Mainly on his account. 

Now, this strange youth, 
For many minds not weak has come to be 
The very apotheosis of help. 
The one door to the muddled universe. 
The answer to the problems numberless, 
The true redeemer of the twisted will. 
The one unlooser of the knotted life. 
For one way or another, Jesus Christ 
Had got a very perfect cinch on life, 
A foothold on the sliding universe. 
An inside secret not before disclosed, 
A central vantage ground and viewpoint not 
Perceived by Pharisee or scribe. He had. 
By some means, won his way unto a peace 
That passed all understanding, a sure hope 
Wherein He rested like a man at home, 
A perfect faith, so calm and questionless 
It seemed more safe than sight — in short, He had 
A native talent for immortal life. 

20 



This was a great advantage, a huge lift, 
A purchase for the mountain-moving act, 
A source of freedom, the prelude of power. 
For most of us are cramped in narrow walls, 
And tied by custom in a double knot. 
We reach and kick and hammer at our walls. 
We bruise our craniums against the bars, 
We strive to lift ourselves out of ourselves 
And somehow get to God by singing hymns 
And listening to dull sermons in a church. 
Of course we fail, of course no man may push 
His way into eternal life by force 
Of arms or nerve or importunity 
Of babbled prayer. God always is for all. 
But only when we deem Him all in all. 

But Jesus did not strive or cry; his faith 
Was adequate to all emergencies. 
Whether upon the mountain top he stood 
And watched the sunset flaring o'er the sea 
In tranquil joy of the familiar scene. 
Or when upon the hill they called "The Skull,' 
He lifted up himself upon the cross. 
Drawing thereby the soul of every man 
Since born unto that cross he was the same. 
Equal and adequate unto himself. 

" Resist not evil," was his magic word. 
It is the secret of his charming life. 
The keynote of his mastery of men. 
For competition is the common hoax, 
Leading us into false relationships 
With our own brethren, such as master, slave, 
Boss and employee, overlord and serf, 
Superior and inferior of all sorts. 
And competition breeds delight in war; 
21 



We all are fighting something all the time, 
Our rivals or our neighbors or our wives; 
Knocking at naught from morn till dev^y eve, 
Standing upon our rights or brooding o'er 
Our wrongs, and always in the attitude 
Of bluff. We walk the earth like grown-up boys, 
With chips invisible upon our shoulders laid. 
Little affronts invited, quarrels mean. 
And constant bickerings that wear out life. 
Why is it ? Just because we choose to take 
The small boy's attitude towards life instead 
Of utterly refusing to waste time 
And strength in quarreling with fate, 

"Accept, 
Accept," said the young carpenter; 
" Do not resist, repudiate, deny. 
God is expressed in every form of life. 
Every condition of society. 
You cannot make His huge world over from 
Without, by force external shaping it 
To uses of the spirit. You must work 
As when a man sows seed upon the ground. 
And sleeps by night and rises by the day, 
Performing his accustomed honest chores. 
While all the time the seed shoots up from blade 
To blossom, how he knows not — only that 
The ground itself brings forth according to 
Its wont. So is the man who lives in God. 
Somehow his purposes are brought about, 
His work bears fruit, his life is safe and sound; 
And yet he never fights, he does not kick. 
He needs no servants, no subaltern jumps 
At his impatient bell, for that the truth 
Has made him free of all coercion or 
Desire to coerce others." 
22 



Jesus said, 
" Resist not evil, judge not, and rejoice 
In persecution for the truth; be glad 
When men revile you, and beware when they 
Applaud; pay no attention to the flesh, 
But make a huge provision for the soul; 
Hoard up your spirit, not your dollars; 
Seek not for lordship but for service seeing 
One is your boss, the Servant of you all; 
Die, and begin to live; give up, give up, 
And find therein truest enlargement and 
The perfect peace preluding perfect work." 

So spake the carpenter, and much beside 
In the same strain — not socialistic as 
Some people think, but just the opposite: — 
Each man in God a law unto himself. 
Each man in God a seed of endless growth, 
Unfolding by an inner, occult urge 
A personality, like His, unique. 
Unforced, gracious and beautiful as were 
The red anemones He loved. 

For socialism means outside restraint, 
The many bludgeoning the gifted few — 
Sending the poet to the plow, the boor 
Into the prince's seat, the man of God 
To hew and draw, the fool to babble in 
Some pulpit-place, and so on, rather odd 
And awkward for us all, especially 
For the aforesaid gifted few. Christ taught 
That under any form of government. 
Free or reverse, each man might be divine. 
The form is nothing, everything depends 
Upon the thoughts we have within our hearts, 
If innocent and loving naught can harm, 
If bad and hateful nothing can bring peace. 
23 



My higher critics lift their brows at this, 
" Your ideas are good," they're pleased to say, 
"But muddled hopelessly; your dates are mixed, 
You're all at sea; the Man of Nazareth 
Meant many things, no doubt, that you and I 
Will never know. One thing we know beyond 
The peradventure of a doubt. He did 
Not mean any hodge-podge of dubious 
Philosophy and still more doubtful science such 
As you, and others of your ilk, attempt 
To foist on a fad-loving world. The Church, 
With its old themes of sin and death and hell. 
May be a long ways from the mind of Christ, 
But it is not so far away from him 
By many a tedious parasang as is 
Your modern little silly New Thought cult." 

Whereat I smile, content to think my thought. 
And live my life untroubled by their girds. 
If the young Carpenter of Galilee 
Had something else in mind — why then. He had. 
What's that to me, just so some carpenter 
Somewhere thinks freely, acts divinely, speaks 
The truth ? Still is the life in God for all. 

THE MENDICANT 

He knelt beside the highway with his broken, bloated face. 
He held her eyes an instant and her heart a moment's 

space: 
"For Christ his love," he whimpered, "have pity on my 

woe, 
And if thou hold thy mercy now, may Christ requite thee 

so." 

24 



She fumbled at her silken purse, she felt the yellow gold, 
She scrutinized the beggar's face with glances hard and 

cold. 
"Thou'rt shamming in the sight of God, mine alms thou 

shalt not win," 
She hurtled at his shrinking form and passed with lifted 

chin. 



She knelt before her husband, she clasped him by the 

knee, 
"Now may the Christ requite thee, as thou hast dealt with 

me. 
She bowed herself before him and her h^ir was like spun 

gold 
And fell about his booted feet in ripples, fold on fold. 

He stroked the bristling mustache and caressed the virile 

chin: 
" And shall but one be punished, when there were two to 

sin? 
Thou'rt shamming in the sight of God whose certain 

judgment is 
That there are two to punish when there were two to kiss." 

" By Christ his love," she whimpered, and wallowed at 

his feet, 
" I have not sinned against thee, though sin were passing 

sweet; 
But I have sinned against the Christ who sate beside the 

way, 
And I withheld my life when I withheld mine alms 

to-day." 

25 



THE SENTINEL 

I came to the gate in the house of God 

And the warder stood thereby, 
And he barred my way and bade me stay 

To answer his questions dry: 
" What is your trade, and what have you made 

To merit a home on high ?" 

" A poet," I said, " am I by trade. 

And I make me cunning verse, — 
Some as sweet as the harvest moon 

When little clouds disperse, 
And some as harsh as the angry words 

The seven seas rehearse." 

The warder smiled and his face was mild, 
"Have you sang of love's young dream, 

When the world is fresh and the delicate flesh 
With lambent pledges gleam, 

When joy and pride on a level tide 
Go floating down the stream ?" 

" I have sang of the flesh when my heart was fresh 

And my pulses leapt like fire, 
When I saw by chance the random glance 

Of wings that never tire. 
When I felt the kiss of that which is 

The heart of the world's desire." 

The warder flushed and his voice was hushed 

With a burden soft and sweet: 
" Have you sang the story of them that strive 

In shop and hovel and street. 
To win to Him who dwells within 

And fall down at his feet ? " 



26 



"I have made me plaints of the soldier-saints. 

The hosts above, below, 
Which fought and bled for God's good Bread, 

In dust and tears and woe; 
Who won at length through Christ his strength 

The name that none may know." 

The warder turned aside his face, 

" Have you told the tale of sin, — 
Of the beggar rout that stand without 

And gird at them within, 
Of the evil case and faring place 

Of those who hellward lean ?" 

"I have sang the song of the sodden heart, 

The soul o'er-red with rust; 
The woman who tore two lives apart 

To wreak her little lust; 
I have sang the pity of the folk 

Who let their spirits fust." 

The warder turned a smiling face. 

"Go back to earth," quod he, 
" And bring me a tale of friendliness 

Ere you come back to me, — 
Of well-fed cheeks and well-filled breeks, 

Of mirth and melody. 

" I want no wail of prisoners pale, 

Of gibbering ghost and elf. 
But the chuckle of a healthy man 

Dependent on himself, 
And wise to gain his petty ends 

Of love or fame or pelf. 

27 



" Bring me a stave of women brave 
Who laughed the world to scorn, 

Who risked their all at love's clear call 
Betwixt the night and morn, 

Who bore disgrace with flashing face, 
Nor deemed themselves forlorn. 

" My earth is thick with fancies sick, 
With doubt and shame and fear; 

Its foolish haste has bred distaste 
For all that God holds dear — 

For hearty human fellowship. 
For passion and good cheer. 

"Go, tell my earth to marry mirth, 
And crown the wedding feast 

With wine and song and laughter long, 
From greatest unto least : 

What else hath man for all his pain, 
Who dieth as the beast ? " 



28 



HELPER OF MEN 

Helper of men, and master of fate, and Lord of the beauti- 
ful day, 

We fumble here in the darkness and wait, for thou art the 
light and the way; 

We fumble here in the darkness and reach for the grip of 
a stronger hand, 

For the more we hear thy ministers preach, the less do we 
understand. 

We know that thy yoke is not grievous, we know that thy 

burden is light. 
We know thou wilt never leave us while the dayspring 

follows the night; 
We know that thy heart is more warm and kind than 

the sons of men may guess. 
And the troubles that seem so wofully blind are full of 

thy lovingness. 

For who is a helper of men but thou ? and who beside is 

their stay ? 
And when was thy mercy more full than now while yet it 

is called to-day ? 
And what is the love of a woman to the love of Jesus, our 

king — 
So heavenly and yet so human, such a tender and perfect 

thing ? 

Shall we trust Him at once and forever, with all that we 

are or may be. 
Till His grace lifts us up like a river and bears us hull 

down out to sea ? 
Hull down on the sea of His pleasure we shall sail for a 

year and a day, 
When He giveth His grace without measure and taketh 

our sorrows away. 

29 



THE NEW 

Old wine, old friends, old books 

Are hardly to my taste, 
I have no time or heart or looks 

To waste. 

Give me the new, the fresh, the young, 
Whose pulses leap and bound. 

While yet my withers are unwrung 
And sound. 

New faces, new remarks, new jokes 

To bring the new year in. 
With not a thought for what old folks 

Have been. 

To-day's to-day, and ours, by gad. 

For lovemaking and play. 
Those poor old duffers long have had 

Their day. 

New loves, with brighter cheeks and hair. 

And flesh of firm warm youth, 
For women — quickly they outwear, 

In truth. 

New hopes, new faiths, new fads, perhaps, 

To poke, to peer, to see — 
The constant hankering of chaps 

Like me. 

New problems, new experiments. 

New talents to disclose, 
Until I rend the veil of sense — 

Who knows ? 



30 



To find the beautiful and true 
Kingdom of God unfold 

In this same life that is not new 
Or old. 



A COUNSEL 

Do not force your life a jot; 

You will only hurt your hands 
Striving to undo a knot 

Fashioned of a million strands. 

Do not force your life a jot, 
Do not meddle with your star, 

For the purest, highest thought 
Presses on you where you are. 



A TRIBUTE 

Take a deep breath, and pitch into your poem; 
If it has wings, it will lift, it will carry you. 
If it is wingless no effort will carry you. 

Strive not to utter the message unusual. 
Rather become yourself some one unusual; 
Don't be Whitmanic except in the spirit. 

No greater poet was ever engendered 

Of Mother Nature than this same Walt Whitman, 

Save in the matter of perfect expression. 

What is the use of a perfect expression 
If there is no divine message to utter, 
If there is no divine messenger speaking ? 

31 



Walt was superb, the true head of the nation, 
Reigning unknown during several quadreniums. 
(Who were the presidents then ? I forget them.) 

If we had known the rough-bearded and coliarless 
Gentleman topping the wisest and best of us, 
Shoulders and head above the wisest and best of us. 

There in the fifties and later, I tell you, 

We would have named him for office : Walt Whitman, 

Head man and boss of a tremendous nation. 

He was contented to be a poor workman, 
He who was father and brother to all of us, 
Doing God's chores while we waited and idled. 

By and by Walt will revisit his country. 
Having exhausted the cities of heaven. 
Stay for a day in his loved Mannahatta, 

Sing her his newer and sweeter romanza, 

Sing of the breeds they are spawning in heaven, 

Healthy, large-lunged, of an infinite beauty. 

Walt, the beloved, large-hearted, and friendly, 
Lover of men and of women and children, 
Lover of God and of His patient cattle. 

Still are you needed and never forgotten 

By your brave States that grow bigger and better, 

As your remembrance grows bigger and better. 

32 



FOR POWER 

God, give me power; 
An energetic and convincing style, 
Well muscled, vigorous, and terse. 
Unmeet to coax the soft conforming smile 
But rather built to raise the ripping curse. 
To last a lifetime, not to live an hour. 

Now out upon the euphemistic bard 

Whose stoutest critic is some sillv maid; 

And bless the man whose blows are stern and hard, 

Who dares to call a spade a spade, 

Of all save his own conscience unafraid. 

Give us stout yeomen of the Saxon breed 
Whose words swing lusty as a harvest flail, 
Who knuckle to no culture and no creed. 
Who only of themselves and in themselves avail, 
And count all outward provocation dead and stale. 

For what is writing but a craftsman's knack, 

And what is letters but a cheat. 

If the thin-skinned and soft-souled author lack 

Ability to stand upon his feet 

And deal out blovv^s around him as he deems it meet ? 

Vigor and grace — would God I had them both; 
Yet if but one be mine, then give me strength : 
I will to do good service and am loth 
To quit my work till I have won at length 
The victory and crown of honest labor — 
The fear of foes, the good will of my neighbor. 

33 



THE TRUANT 

I'm goin' to cut my work to-day and hit a country road; 

The business and the lady and the children all be blowed! 

I've trotted in the harness till my back and sides are sore, 

I'm goin' to hit the road to-day and never work no more. 
What's the use o' fussin', what's the good o' work ? 
Twenty years o' labor and still an ill-paid clerk, 
Twenty years o' cussin' and rippin' up the back — 
I'm goin' to quit the whole concern or my name it isn't 
Jack. 

The girl I married's disappeared and I am tied unto 
A gaunt, thin-chested woman, a devil of a shrew; 
It's javvin' when I come to lunch, and jawin' in my bed, 
I tell you I am gettin' wise to cut the thing instead. 

What's the use o' tryin' when she only chews the rag, 

What's the fun o' livin' with a woman on the nag ? 

Twenty years o' married life — twenty years o' hell! 

I'm goin' to hit a country road and drop it for a spell. 

The kids are well enough, but God! what do they care 

for me ? 
They never sit upon my lap or dangle round my knee; 
They pull my leg for pennies and sass me oflFand on, 
Oh, they'll be glad and she'll be glad when I am dead 
and gone. 
What's the use o' bein' good, what's the use o' life ? 
All the folks are just the same — boss and kids and 

wife; 
All the folks are just the same, gettin' all they can, 
And tryin' to starve out the soul of a self-respectin' man. 

A quiet country road I know which I am bound to seek, 
It travels in among the fields and past a little creek 

^4 



Where the willows bend and toss themselves in freedom 

and in joy 
The same's they used to when I was a barefoot country 

What's the use o' fussin' when the water's still and 

deep ? 
What's the use o' workin' when the woods are all 

asleep ? 
What's the good o' frettin' when the sumach's turnin' 

brown ? 
I'm goin' to hit a country road and quit the busy town. 

That's the way I figger it, that's the way I dream; 

God knows I haven't got the nerve to seek that country 

stream. 
I'm bound to stick out where I am and see the concert 

through — 
The same old boss, the same old kids, the same old sharp- 
faced shrew. 
What's the use o' tryin' to break away at last ? 
Here I am and here I'll stay anchored good and fast; 
Gettin' meaner every day, waitin' for the call 
To quit the load and hit the road free for good and all! 

"LOVE IS TOO YOUNG—" 

" Love is too young to know what conscience is," 
Excuse a blind and naughty little god. 

His heart is right, his wings drive him amiss. 
This is no case for closet or for rod. 

" Love is too young to know what conscience is," 
He cannot read, his health is far from good; 

Sometimes he steals for hunger one poor kiss, 
As little street boys sin for lack of food. 

35 



COMPENSATION 

What a distempered piece of clay 
Am I, who wait from day to day, 
And fret and fail and grieve until 
Wrath at myself unbends my quill — 
When lo, the world is full of light, 
And naught to do but write and write. 

How foolishly I pine for God, 

x'^nd send my fancies far abroad, 

And seek and sue, when at my feet 

The rivers of His pleasure meet, 

And I may drink my fill nor stir 

A hand's breadth from this easy-chair. 

How do I seek for Love, when he 
Hangs round my heels continually; 
I cannot step but I would tread 
Upon some fair and shrinking head, 
Nor move without dislodging some 
Sweet spirit from Elysium. 

Nay, what a life for man or boy, 
Crowded with hope and crammed with joy; 
The very atmosphere doth press 
On him with unfeigned friendliness; 
The stars are strong for him, the trees 
Are full of homespun sympathies. 

If he should try, he could not get 
One dollar out of Nature's debt; 
He owed all when his life began. 
Nothing has paid since he was man, 
And shortly will slip to his grave 
Still Nature's poor debtor and slave. 



36 



But best of all, the heart of him 
Beats music with the seraphim, 
And draws from every incident 
The very value that it meant. 
Changing sober green things all 
To the reds and golds of fall. 



QUATRAIN 

Your life is hanging by a hair! 
But hairs are strong as iron rods 
When held by the immortal gods; 

You may rest easy, and to spare. 



FOR INSPIRATION 

Touch my lips with fire. Lord, 
And my tongue with flame. 

So that every word I utter 
Shall extol thy name. 

I am but a man. Lord, 
I am poor and weak. 

Be in every sentence 
I shall write or speak. 

Touch my lips with fire, Lord, 

As in days of yore, 
Grant I speak as poet 

Never spake before. 

37 



THE BETTER PART 

He is great who lifts the glass 

Of life's liquor to his lip, 
Merely tastes and lets it pass, 

Well contented with a sip; 

He is greater far, I think. 

Whose admittance hath no bounds 

Save the one desire to drink 
All experience to the grounds. 

TO THE GEARED DESTINY 

To the geared Destiny, the flux of moods, 
The charmed rotation of the wheels of God, 
I whoop unstinted praise. Laugh and grow fat, 
The proverb points; rather, say I, laugh and 
Become religious — climb on board the ark. 
Calk up the windows, let the tempest howl. 
And also let the unbelievers howl 
Outside. God's in it all. Just forty days 
Of good hard flood, the sluices of the skies 
Wide open day and night for one month and 
Ten days — 'twould simplify our politics 
And labor troubles to the queen's own taste. 

To the geared Destiny, the subtle wheels 
Within wheels, delicate adjustments of 
Mind-stuff with matter-stuff and both with God - 
No loose cog or wild whirling wheel in all 
The screwed and balanced universe; quite safe 
And true, from the infinitesimal 
Electron everywhere at home in things 
To the sojourner on the earth who seeks 
A city that abides, that is, a heavenly: — 
To thee I make this unaggressive whoop. 
38 



To the geared Destiny, the winged wheel 
Which swallows up all other wheels whether 
Inside men's heads or out, the stream of life 
And light men call their inner consciousness; 
The first and last, question and answer, faith 
And works, mainspring and pinion, endless urge 
And endless rest, the thousand-facing truth, 
The bearer and begetter without days : — 
I whoop a glad hosanna ere I go. 

To the geared Destiny, with a sick smile 
I bow. For unsuccess through thirty years 
And more, for prayers that never were fulfilled, 
For curses likewise unfulfilled, for fears 
More real than feared for things, and hopes more 

sweet 
Than things hoped for may be, for lying faiths 
That lured me to the last, and shames that ate 
My manhood out, for loves that dragged me down 
But to redeem me at the last, for cheats 
Of sense and cheats of soul — I thank thee, Fate. 

To the geared Destiny, with a sly grin 
Of fellow knowledge I would make a few 
Well-timed remarks. For an affluent soul 
That never knew what 'twas to beg or work, 
Sunning itself in safety and delight 
Of endless inner resource; for a good 
Conceit (in spite of unsuccess) of my 
Own powers to say the thing I would and say 
It perfectly; for a new morning to 
Each day — the childhood of the soul reborn 
In dreamless sleep; for a stout dream of God, 
A brave thought of His balanced universe, 
The sweet assurance of a woman's love 
Which always was and evermore must be: 
I thank thee, good, old-fashioned Lord and God. 
39 



To the geared Destiny, that was and is 
And is to come, the wheels of fate, the thin 
Spun thread stouter than iron cables, 
The delicate creations of the mind, 
Vague Teachings out and gropings in the dark. 
Faint, fluent pictures of the life that is 
And was and must be without end, the sure 
Upheaval and redemption of the sons 
Of men, the perfect balanced swing of force 
And force in mind and matter just the same, 
The world of spirits safe and equipoised 
As men and women upon earth, the old 
Wise words of Hebrew, Greek, and Gaul, 
The father, son, and holy breath, the mind 
In me and in the universe, I bow. 

To the geared Destiny, the comrade dear, 
The tender fellowship by land and sea. 
The saving health and sweetness of my days, 
The looking forward to the hope to come. 
When I shall see my earthly father's face, 
Who died when I was in my mother's womb, 
When I shall clasp his hand and kiss his lips, 
And walk beside him in the streets of God; 
When I shall know myself in God as I 
Am known in Him, and He shall be to me 
A sense of perfect safety and of rest 
Unspeakable and full of joy — unto 
This hope, and all the things a man may not 
Attempt to say without the spirit which 
Assists our prayers with groans unutterable, 
I would submit myself in humble trust. 



40 



SHE LOOKED ACROSS THE MORNING SEA 

She looked across the morning sea, 
"Love tarries," the maiden said, 

" Mayhap he will never come to me, 
Mayhap young love is dead." 

idle lad, O young lover. 

Make haste across the morning sea, 
Where stands a maiden soul astir 
With longing for thy lips and thee! 

THE SIGN OF THE SETTING SUN 

At the Sunset Inn I sit 

On a bench beside the door. 
Ere the evening lamps are lit 

And the sullen chimneys roar; 

1 watch the toilers old 

Troop homeward one by one, 
From field and wood and wold 
To the Sign of the Setting Sun. 

They come with tired eyes 

And faces haggard drawn 
From trades their souls despise 

And pleasures held in pawn; 
They fling their fardels down 

Prepared for rest and fun, 
Prepared the ancient wrongs to drown 

At the Sign of the Setting Sun. 

They lift their rheumy eyes 

And call for bed and sup, 
With hideous mimicries 

They toss the can and cup; 

41 



They laugh in senile play 

And weep ere it is done — 
A mad and merry folk are they 

At the Sign of the Setting Sun. 

The ribald jest goes round, 

They cheer for custom's sake, 
Full noisily the tables pound, 

While palsied fingers shake; 
They kiss with trembling lips 

The cheeks that once they won — 
Ah, for the old enticing sips 

At the Sign of the Setting Sun! 

Prince, your pity is all unmeet, 

They are over with fighting and fun 

We too journey with flying feet 

Towards the Sign of the Setting Sun. 



FOILED 

I'll put the dawn in a neat quatrain, 
The poet said to his muse, then tripped 

The three first verses off amain — 
On the last his good pen slipped. 

Offspring of the tainted blood, 
Though God cover all your sin, 

Just when you reach your highest mood 
Slips the eternal failure in! 



42 



THE BALLAD OF A TRUE LOVER 

Now, who is the fairest of all women, 

My little lad, tell to me — 
Godiva, Guenever, Queen Helen, 

Or Iseult by the sea ? 

My little lad held me by the hand. 
And his cheeks were bright of blee; 

He kissed me twice full on the lips. 
But never a word spake he. 

Speak up, speak up, my little lad. 

And let thy blushes be; 
Now whoisthefairestof all women. 

My little lad, tell to me. 

Oh, his face was soft as an April down, 

His voice was like the birds. 
And may I look on his face no more 

If I ever heard sweeter words. 

The fairest woman in all the world 

Is looking now at me. 
And the sweetest face God ever made 

He gave, my mother, to thee. 

And oh, but I caught my little lad up, 

And held him to my breast; 
And oh, but his love was the sweetest love 

That ever lips confessed! 

Godiva, Guenever, Queen Helen, 

What shall ye say to me ? 
Had ye ever a lover so sweet of speech 

As this upon my knee ? 



43 



FATE 

Fate was painting a picture 
To hang on heaven's wall, 

So he ground a man to powder 
To make his colors withal; 

For his oils he took a woman, 
And crushed her dripping heart; 

The angel nodded his cruel head — 
" 'Tis art as the end of art." 



CHRISTMAS 

It was so long ago, dear heart, 

Why should the world recall 
One little hour of joy and smart, 

One Syrian baby small ? 

There are so many nights and days. 
And mothers with their little sons. 

Why should the present people praise 
Because there was a birthday once ? 

It was not long ago, dear heart. 
For think you on this very night 

Some humble Mary feels the smart 
And waits in sorrow for the light; 

And unto us, will Mary say, 

A child is born, a son is given. 
And we are all released this day 

With peace on earth, good will in heaven. 



44 



Where babies by their mothers sleep, 
Where wise men wend upon their way, 

iVhere shepherds watch beside their sheep - 
There dwells the joy of Christmas Day; 

And though the years are long, dear heart, 
Since that fair morn we solemnize, 

Its peace is never far apart. 

Its radiance reddens all our skies. 



'^HIS ALONE THE WISE MAN KNOWS 

This alone the wise man knows 
Reap he must the seed he sows. 
Bread of life or devil's grist 
From the shaking of his fist. 

And a planting full of pain 
Often yields the richer grain, 
While the bitterest bread to eat 
Was in sowing small and sweet. 

Every one that seeketh God 
Still must tread a narrow road; 
Pluck out eye and cut off limb 
If you would discover Him. 

Pay the price and you may have 
Heaven for a willing slave. 
Seems it goodly in thine eyes 
Do not haggle at the price! 

45 



LOVE COMES AND GOES 

Love comes and goes, 

Like any other quick forgotten mood — 
A pause between the acts, an interlude, 

A bit of tender verse among the prose. 

Love pales and glows, 

A flame that lightens up the house of clay. 
Inconstant, flickering, for its little day, 

And then all unexpected out it goes. 

Ah, sweet, who knows 

How soon this light of love that is our sun 
Shall fail and leave us desolate as one 

Who at his hearth fire vainly puffs and blows ? 

And we, suppose, 

Shall some day try like him to start the fire 
Gone out, the embers of a dead desire 

To bring to life again with heat that glows: 

Oh, dear my rose 

Of passion, could the hearthstone grow so cold 
Our kisses would not Warm it to the old 

Sweet madness that our lips to-day disclose r 

Love comes and goes — 

The flush and fire of all the summertide. 
The flare upon the hills and meadows wide, 

And then, then comes the quiet of the snows. 

Ah, sweet, who knows 
What summertides the future years shall bring, 
What buds shall open and what birds shall sing, 

What rose of love lies buried in their snows ? 



46 



WHAT HAVE I TO DO WITH THE ENDLESS 
WASH OF THE BOOKS 

What have I to do with the endless wash of the books, 
Iteration of words and surfaces, appearances and looks ? 
Back of the symbol or in it forever there dwells 
Maker and lord of the worlds with their heavens and 

hells. 
Spirit of life and tossing innumerable spores 
Of spiritual life to all the cosmogonic shores — 
Here a live bit of quartz and there a thin blade of grass 
And yonder bringing the hint of a marvelous poem to 

pass. 
But always alive and kinetic, metabolic, if you please. 
Draining the wine of life and pressing it to the lees. 

What have I to do with this endless babble of words 
Who have to do with this wonderful Lord of lords ? 
What have I to do, who need only loiter and look 
At the small things and great things never writ in a book — 
The evening sky with its crimson flare reaching around 

the world. 
The seedpod of the immortelle where quiet hopes are 

furled, 
The laughter and scream of children who play in the sun- 
set glow. 
Two lovers walking in a light that only lovers know, 
A young man thinking on his God, an old man on his gold, 
A woman blowing at the fire where love is numb and cold ? 

A life of woven sequences, with neither plot nor plan, 
A tide which flings upon the shore or spar or weed or man ; 
Which does not think and does not blink the issues of the 

game. 
But tosses life and tosses death with nonchalance the 

same — 

"47 



Tangled ropes and blasted hopes and floatsam of the 

heart, 
Soil of life and sweet of life, sprays that sting and smart, 
But altogether working as the winds of God may blow, 
And drifting, drifting towards the place that all shall 

sometime know. 
The place of shrift and endless peace where each shall 

hold his own 
And none may make a man afraid before the great white 

throne. 

Life, it is life I Vvould tackle without any metaphor, 
Strip off the ragged rind, dig to the honey core. 
Taste and touch and handle the thing that is life indeed. 
Sunder the bone and marrow, sever the veins that bleed. 
Reach to the heart of a man or fathom a woman white, 
And peer and poke and examine till I stand in God's own 

sight. 
Then I shall know, I suppose, then I shall see for sure. 
Or will it be just another soulless mask to allure. 
Just another such life as this, hidden or half expressed, 
Where a man forgets his object in the hurry ,of the quest, 
Where the bloom is off the fruit ere ever he gets a taste, 
And all his heart has hoarded up is left for death to waste ? 

'Tis fun to fleer in heaven's ear, but wait the little span: 
There's Something at the heart of things and in the heart 

of man; 
'Tis Something rather terrible, yet also rather kind. 
But not at all mysterious as we'shall one day find; 
No bogie, ghost, or phantom, no autocrat or king. 
But just the common breath of life that blows in every- 
thing — 
A mother's love, a maiden's lips, a martyr's lighted face, 
\ peddler's pack, a preacher's prayer, a printer at his 
case, 

48 



A sailor's curse, a harlot's smile, a soldier's bandaged 

head, 
Why, anything and everything whereof it may be said: 
Now what is the kingdom of heaven, whereunto shall we 

liken it ? 
A sweeping woman, a bridal feast, a man who digged a 

pit, 
A wicked judge, a murderer, a boy who sowed wild oats ? 
Why, the kingdom is just our common life and all that it 

connotes. 

God is a friendly spirit, quiet and self-possessed, 

Not at all worried over you or any of the rest; 

He holds you close. He hugs you tight, you cannot break 
from Him, 

The least are in His sight as are the young-eyed cherubim; 

He does not heed your curses and He does not mind your 
prayers, 

To Him the harlot and the maid the selfsame aspect 
wears. 

The angel and the fiend to Him look very much the 
same — 

His children all. His little folk, and not at all to blame 

If they have lived their lives according to His breath, 

And taken the long chances of human life and death. 

He bids them watch. He bids them wait in mystery and 
pain 

Till He shall see them face to face and everything ex- 
plain. 



49 



THE LOOKING-GLASS 

Old glass, I cannot help but view 
The breaking up and loss of you 

With sorrow humble; 
You've stood so patiently and long, 
Your walnut framework seemed so strong 

It ne'er could crumble. 

But now, alas! Time's careless hand 

Has dimmed and blurred your surface bland 

With cracks pathetic; 
Never again shall you reflect 
A woman, nor her flaws detect 

And arts cosmetic. 

You showed her when a little girl, 
The yellow hair a snarly whorl 

Hard to untangle, 
The sallow cheek and pointed chin, 
And unripe shoulders flowing in 

To bone and angle. 

Ah, how you hated her, and made 
The large eyes of themselves afraid. 

Forlorn and homely; 
How you enveigled her with hints 
Never quite realized since. 

Of features comely. 

The years went by, the bones got hidden, 
The fire and color came unbidden 

The cheeks to blazon; 
The hair got tucked away quite simple, 
The chin developed a neat dimple — 

'Twas almost brazen! 



50 



The eyes that were afraid so long 

Grew calm and steadfast, cool and strong, 

And looked out squarely; 
Until you told her secrets she 
Had kept from all folks, even me — 

'Twas done unfairly. 

You made her blush, you saw it there 
Flush from her slender neck to hair, 

A shameful splendor; 
Ah, looking-glass, had you a heart 
To make a young girl sting and smart 

With longings tender ? 

Oh, for the secrets you might tell 
Of that one woman you knew well. 

Her whims and fancies, 
Her hopes and fears, her idle tears, 
Her questionings of future years, 

Her fateful glances! 

Ah, the fair forms, the old sweet faces, 
The white breasts in their trembling laces, 

You might remember! 
Gone are they, and no slightest trace 
Shows on your dull and dimming face, 

Pale as December. 

The girl is gone, the young wife too; 
My smarting eyes now only view 

An old, old woman, 
Gray of heart and gray of head — 
Only memory not dead. 

Warm and human! 



51 



TO A YOUNG AMORIST 

What is it, after all you seek, 

In womankind ? 
A rose-red mouth, a red-rose cheek ? 

Ah, little lover, Love is blind! 

Most ordinary maids I guess 

Have lips and cheeks the normal hue; 
Why is it that one's loveliness 

Takes such a mighty hold of you ? 

They all are pretty much the same, 
As Kipling says, beneath their skins, 

The difference is in place and name, 
And not in sins. 

There is no need to pick and choose 
When courting such a cunning folk; 

It's heads, they v^in, it's tails, you lose — 
Which same is by no means a joke. 

They get you as you come and go : 
The reason is not hard to seek. 

Though hardly, as they too well know, 
A rose-red mouth, a red-rose cheek. 

But just that common thing called sex. 
That brutal urge in man and beast 

That God has willed somehow to vex 
The greatest a:nd the least. 

A woman hides this instinct crass. 
While man, a man like you, will make 

Himself one large consummate ass 
For her dear sake. 



52 



THE PERPETUAL PROCESSION 

Marching, marching, the big and little folks, 

Grinning hard to keep back tears and cracking musty 

jokes, 
Shaking hands or shaking heads, crazy lot, you bet. 
Marching through an alien land in the cold and wet. 

Jolly lot of beggars tramping through the rain ; 
They'll never see the firesides of their homes again, 
Never see the sturdy friends they started with in life — 
Father dead or mother dead, husband or wife. 

Marching, marching, don't you hear the band ? 
Big folk and little folk going hand in hand, 
Gray heads astumbling, chubby legs atrot — 
Such a world of friendly folk God must love a lot! 

Every one a bustling, bound to pull it through; 
Not a one among 'em all knows what he would do; 
Some are chasing dollars, some in search of love — 
Fond folk, fool folk, ever on the move. 

Marching, marching, all around the earth 
Goes the big parade of men prodigal of mirth; 
One by one they fall away, one by one enlist, 
None of them are wanted much and none of them are 
missed. 

There's a youth and maiden have forgot the band. 
Only watch each other's eyes, clasping hand in hand; 
'Tis but for a moment and they march again 
With the mighty caravan toiling o'er the plain. 

S3 



Marching, marching, through the years and years, 
Half of them in happiness, half of them in tears, 
But they never falter nor an instant stay 
For their God has set them journeying a day. 

Looking neither right nor left, faces all in front. 
Never noticing a thing but their daily stunt. 
Hand in hand a seeking for they know not what — 
Such a world of friendly folk God must love a lot! 

A PARADOX 

God gave me leave of a little place, 
He bound my feet and hands; 

Then sighed I long for wider space — 
The largesse of the lands. 

God said, I have no room at all. 
There where I am thou also art — 

Behold, there is no chain or wall, 
Freeholder of the human heart! 

GIFTS 

What can Love give ? 

A restless thirsting for forbidden streams, 

An anxious travail for the pot of gold, 

A following of phantoms of bright dreams. 

And all the mingled bliss and pain of old 

Wherein the world of men do live. 

What can Art give ? 

A sure, calm outlook upon human life, 

A poised and pure content in simple things, 

54 



A mastership of vain and witless strife 
In joy of realized imaginings, 
Wherein the world of men may live. 

What can Death give ? 

A folding of the books of love and art, 

A falling of a few stray autumn leaves, 

A little strong and glad content of heart 

Like his who gleaneth here and there his sheaves 

At sunset, dear though fugitive. 

What can God give ? 
A sense of rounded life, however brief; 
A sense of kinship with the circling years, 
A sense of ultimate, unearned relief 
From all the tyranny of age-long fears 
Wherein the world of men do live. 

A GREETING 

It's a good race and a hot pace and I'm glad I've got my 

start, 
I wouldn't miss the joy of life and I wouldn't miss the 

smart; 
For it's good all through from rind to core, hard and 

sound and sweet. 
From the endless blue above to the green beneath my 

feet. 

It's a good life and a hot strife and never a moment to 
rest, 

But plenty of time for a beautiful rhyme, a kiss, or a 
kindly jest; 

Then into the saddle again and away wherever our cap- 
tain leads — 

Captain Duty, the Christ of all the warring parties and 
creeds. 

55 



Then pray God send us a happy end when the race is over 

and done, 
And the stakes are all distributed, and the runners one by 

one 
Takes each his place by God his grace quietly standing 

there. 
Waiting the summons to sleep and waiting the summons 

to fare. 

A brave lot and a grave lot, who have learned their lesson 

well, 
Who never needed the lure of heaven or heeded the spur 

of hell, 
But loved their work and hated to shirk and kept their 

counsels still — 
True gentlemen of the sword and pen, knights of the loving 

will! 

BOY, BOY 

Boy, boy, 
Can't you hear, don't you know, 
I love you, dear, I love you so ? 
And the night is dark and the dew is wet 
And my heart has awaked and will not forget 
How it sang at the first, how it whispers yet, 

'■ Boy, boy." 

Boy, boy. 
Can't you hear, don't you know. 
My poor heart, dear, it hurts me so ? 
It wakes and calls the long night through. 
Throbbing tremulous and true. 
And its every beat for you, 

Boy, boy. 

56 



Boy, boy, 
Can't you guess, don't you know, 
Your carelessness hurts me so ? 
At the first you seemed to care. 
Praised me for my lips and hair — 
Have you found a face more fair, 

Boy, boy ? 

Boy, boy. 
Can't you hear, don't you know, 
I love you, dear, I love you so ? 
No matter what you say or do, 
Or be you false or be you true, 
I reach my lips and hands for you, 

Boy, boy. 

THANKS 

Thanks for the red leaves and the evergreen. 

Thanks for the white gift of the widespread snow. 

Thanks for this fugitive bright winter scene 
Whose peace I know. 

Thanks for the sad trees stripped and desolate, 
Thanks for the mournful message of the breeze. 

Thanks for the heart that learns again to wait 
Thinking on these. 

Thanks for the well-remembered pipe of quail. 
Thanks for the rabbit tracks beloved of yore, 

Thanks for the silence of the long white trail 
Stretching before. 

Thanks for the long November nights serene. 

Thanks for the books and the bright fireside glow. 

Thanks for the red leaves and the evergreen 
Whose peace I know. 

57 



THE UNCONSCIOUS MIND 

The calm life of our life leads on and on, 

It draws us and we follow silently, 

It plays about our footsteps and springs up 

Beside our meanest path appareled in 

A thousand forms of wonder and desire; 

It walls around us in our weakness with 

Invisible battalions of pure love; 

It lulls us out of anger, out of fret. 

Wakens the silver dreams that wanton round 

The bed on wholesome summer nights, calls off 

The dark shapes of misused hours, regret, 

And all the sorrows that endue the past; 

Redeems us from our worser selves, the dark 

And canine natures there, that whine and bite. 

And saves us for ourselves, those better selves, 

That slumber all the time in most of us 

And only now and then get half a chance 

To show how really noble and divine 

And equal to the best soul of the race 

Each one of them at bottom is. 

This life of life that is before all life. 
This light of light to which our good sun's light 
Is dusk and shadow, this immortal mind 
Creative, infinite, unvexed that holds 
Resistless sway beneath the outward show 
And ordinary consciousness of men, 
The power behind the throned volition and 
The unthought thought and inarticulate 
And still small voice whose utterance is not 
In words but by conveyance of a mood. 
The demonstration of the spirit and 
Of power; this life, I say, is in each man 
Born to this world, as the Fourth Gospel says. 
58 



It would be lucky for us all could we 
Admit this Scripture, and accept our high 
And noble calling and unlimited 
Inheritance in thought, partakers of 
The mind of Christ, ourselves as well as He, 
Being indeed the life, the truth, the way. 
Why can't we just for fun, as children say, 
Attempt to live a day, a month, a year. 
At the top notch of human excellence. 
Believing in the life within our life. 
The mind and will behind our mind and will, 
The very urge and lift of God himself 
Beneath our broken purposes, and so 
Come to our real abiding selves, the free 
And kindly folk we mean to be when rid 
Of earth's embarrassments and the old call 
Of fleshly lusts that war against the soul ? 

Oh, it will be a lucky day for all 
God's world, especially His poor outcast 
Defective crazy people, who, say what 
You will, have hardly had fair treatment even 
From Him, when it shall come unto its own. 
And find the kingdom of which prophets spake 
And poets sang within itself, this same 
Becursed God's world. 

O brothers, it is not 
An idle hope, an unwise faith, a dream 
Of mental scientists or women who 
Are rather off their intellectual nut. 
But something quite as rational as is 
Our usual way of living trustless and 
From hand to mouth like whining pensioners 
And roadside beggars while in truth we are 
The sons and heirs of reason and joint heirs 
59 



With Christ and Zoroaster and Saint Paul 
And Shakespeare and Walt Whitman and the rest 
Who cast themselves outright upon the soul, 
And wagered life and death and everything 
Upon the certitude of their own dream. 

One thing life teaches every one of us: 
We can do nothing of ourselves; we live 
And move and have our being in a thoug-ht 
That is not as our thoughts, a stronger will 
Than ours makes mock of our endeavors, and 
A kinder love than ours tugs at our heart 
And lifts us into better company 
Against our judgment. When we try to be 
Somewhat ourselves we always find it is 
A sad mistake. Instead of showing off 
Our quality, as we are fain to do, 
We make ourselves long-eared, conspicuous 
Jackasses, which we were not meant to be. 

Trust God; accept your destiny in just 

The biggest terms you dare to think. Be sure 

It is far short of His ambition and 

Desire for you. He is no niggard of 

His grace and bounty. All that you can hold. 

Pressed down and running over will He give 

Unto your bosom, day by day; no wage 

Nor grudging alms, but His free gift it is. 

Provided for and calculated close 

Before the worlds were made, and all for you, 

Saved and stored up a million million years. 

And you yourself, believe, no accident. 

Awaited and expected, not nine months, 

But in the womb of God a million years 

Or more, evolved and perfected for use. 

60 



God has His reasons. Do not think because 

He does not whoop them up and down the street, 

Nor print them in the papers, nor orate 

Them from the pretty pulpits that He is 

Working without a neat design drawn up. 

Nor that He has, in this befuddled world. 

Bit off a bigger piece than He can chew. 

God has His reasons, though He is reserved, 

And doubtless can complete all that He has 

Begun. There is no shred or peel or ash 

In all the universe that is not in 

Its place, and perfect in its place; 

And think you God has fixed His men askew 

Upon the planet ? That He built and poised 

The house so delicately and so fine, 

And huddles up some kind of tenant for 

The house out of the ofFal and refuse 

Of suns ? Rather bethink you you are built 

And poised in this same living universe 

More delicately and securely than 

The common scaflFolding of earth and sky. 

God has His reasons, and He rather likes 
To tell them to the proper parties at 
The proper times, that is, when they are still 
And quit their fussing and their flattering. 
You cannot flatter God, though I have heard 
Silly young priests ascribe such wondrous things 
To God I knew they thought 'twould flatter Him. 
Truth is. He knows more than most folks suspect, 
And needs but very little talking to. 
Our cue is not to babble but to wait 
And listen for Him; wait, I say, until 
He comes and listen quietly without 
The slightest fear or worry. He will come. 
Or, to be quite exact. He's always here, 
61 



Infinitely elastic, in the small 

And great, the fool and wise, alike. Defeat 

To Him is victory, and pain delight. 

For that He sees beyond the skyline of 

Man's little life the flush and dawn of man's 

Eternal life, and seeing is content. 

All is made up in God; the unsuccess 

For which we cursed ourselves through fruitless 

years, 
Offending members we would not destroy. 
And happy faculties we let burn out. 
And all the things that seemed our mortal hurt. 
And all the griefs about us that we made 
Our own by foolish sympathy, made up 
In God. This is the grace that levels kings 
To slaves, and makes the purest lady one 
With the loose-lipped and mincing courtesan, 
For each and all possess the life of life 
To which our conscious life is but a joke. 

We are quite safe; safer than one would think 

Who saw alone the outward circumstance. 

The rise and fall of empires and the swift 

Mutations of the individual. 

From high to low, from grave to ludicrous; 

For we are anchored, every mother's son 

And daughter of us, indisputably 

To that which is beneath our consciousness. 

And mightier than human consciousness, 

Even the gravitation grip of God. 

Naturally we are safe; without our help 
Or with our help, it is the same; we climb 
By these same old blamed instincts towards the 
light, 

62 



And ever with each lunge of soul we grow 
Bigger and better fitted for the light. 
We are not anywhere deceived or mocked, 
The Sirens all are angels of the Lord 
Disguised in pleasures for our wonderment; 
We cannot find a way in all the world 
Unmeet for human footsteps or unkind; 
There is no appetite of flesh nor taste 
Of soul we may not slake with confidence 
That We therein are surely not betrayed; 
The woman's body and the man's are good 
To contemplate and feast upon for aye, 
In no wise baits of hell to any folk; 
The woman's soul and even more the man's 
Are good to contemplate and feast upon, 
And there is no soul quite contemptible, 
For each and all possess the life of life. 

The mind unconscious is the thought wherein 

We are at one with one another and 

At one with God; not in a parable, 

But in the very fact of life. The breath 

In our own nostrils just the breath He breathes; 

The bed rock of our consciousness the thought 

He thinks; the evolutionary urge 

Within us bursting through the rind of use 

And wont, or crystalizing into custom. 

Just the urge in Him for adequate 

Expression and relief. 



63 



THE MOTHER 

She beat against the doors of Death, 

She strake the panels grim: 
"Thou god who gatherest more than all, 
Give me back my baby small! 

What need hast thou of him ? 

"Hast thou not herds of human folk, 
The black and white, the young and old ? 

What is one small babe to thee ? 

(He was life and more to me — 
His hair was like spun gold.) 

"Yea, thou hast princes in thy train. 

And queens crawl at thy feet; 
\nd wouldst thou grudge this little one, 
My small, entrancing, soft-limbed son. 

Because his smile is sweet ? 

"Nay, lord, thy hand-maiden would beg 
(My hands are bruised upon his gate!) 

Return to me this tender flower. 

(It is his usual supper hour. 
He is not used to wait.) 

She beat against the doors of Death, 

She strake the panels grim: 
"Thou god who gatherest more than all. 
Because my baby is so small, 

Be very good to him." 



64 



LORD JESUS, WISE AND DEBONAIR 

Lord Jesus, wise and debonair. 
Listen to a young man's prayer: 

Ere the good bright day begins 
Sweetly pardon all my sins; 

When I rise from off my bed 
May my heart be comforted 

With the vision of thy face 
Glistering in every place; 

When I go to dress, do thou 
Hang a garland on my brow 

Of such choice and fragrant flowers 
As men call diurnal hours- 

When I go to wash and eat, 
Do thou be my drink and meat, 

Be thou on my table spread 

Like spilled wine and broken bread- 

When I rise my work to do, 
Do thou follow after, too. 

Bear a hand in eveiy labor, 
Like an honest friendly neighbor; 

If I make me pretty verses. 
Hallow them with thy dear mercies, 

65 



Or if I should choose to plow, 
Hide within the furrows, thou: 

When these toilful ardors pass 
Loaf beside me on the grass, 

Or in some sweet sylvan nook 
Linger with me o'er a book; 

When the day is near its end 
And I sit beside my friend, 

Sit and smoke and talk and smile. 
Be thou too my guest the while; 

All the day and every day, 
Be my light, my life, my way, 

All my peace and passion share, 
Jesus, wise and debonair. 



THE GIRL THOUGHT 

The girl thought love was made to bring 

The summertide to fall, 
A delicate, delightful thing, 

And that was all. 

The girl, like other fools, at last 
Found out love's lordship, just 

The whisper from an endless past 
That men call lust. 



66 



A sorry dream, a needless lie, 

A cradle rocking to and fro, 
A hurt heart, and the voiceless cry 

That women know. 

"Dear God," she said, "could they not tell 
Girls of the bitter fruit of love ? 

How sadder than the pangs of hell, 
The»end thereof!" 

The girl thought love was made to bring 

The summertide to fall; 
The woman knew 'twas suffering. 

And that was all. 



OH, WONDERFUL 

Oh, wonderful! A woman's kiss 

Like music to my spirit is; 

Like music of the west wind fleet 

Blown from some blessed bower of bliss. 

Where lovers lie at Love's own feet 

And know no more earth's sun or sleet 

In one long kiss. 

So pure, so passionate, so sweet. 

Dear Lord, whose love unlike our own 
Admits no mortal taint. 
No touch of tears, no happy moan 
Of lips with kissing faint; 
Forgive, if I divide thy throne 
With this dear woman at my feet, 
Whose ministry is as thine own. 
But much more sweet! 



67 



Her banner over me is love, 

She binds me that I may not see 

The passion in the olive grove, 

Or that sad place called Calvary: 

And shows me in the stead thereof 

A woman young and fair 

Kneeling at the feet of Love, 

To wipe them with her perfumed hair. 



ANTIQUE LOVERS 

I would sing of the strong, sweet lovers of old. 
With fierce, sad faces and sunken eyes, 

Who staked their all like gamesters bold 
For a little prize; 

I would sing of the warm, white women of old. 
Their sweet, sad mouths and tawny hair, 

Who met their lovers with looks as bold 
As their eyes were fair. 

Kisses were precious in those far days. 
When a little bejeweled dagger might snip 

Off any moment the lover's praise 
And his bright red lip; 

And breasts were soft, as you may surmise. 
And lavishly spread for a lover's feast. 

When one brief night's lease must suffice 
At the very least. 

I would sing of the strong, sweet lover who lay 
His uttermost soul for a little prize, — 

To win the lips of a lady gay 
With the languishing eyes; 

68 



Who wagered his soul and his body'too, 
For a lolloping morsel of pink and^white, 

To clip and cuddle as lovers do 
For a gray cold night; 

Who wagered and lost, as the best of us may, 
Who laughed in the face of the black-browed 
spouse, 

As they sullenly fought at the break of the day, 
Back of the house; 

Sullenly fought till the lover's lip 

Grew a shade too pale for a kiss to pass, 

While my good lord wiped his rapier tip 
On the dewy grass; 

And then proceeded with quite an air 
Of injured righteousness to upbraid 

That lolloping morsel of woman fair 
With his thin cool blade. 

A few quick strokes and she staggers back 
With white breasts bloody and nose awry, 

And he dully wonders what's alack 
That she does not cry. 

O brave young lover, with hair of gold, 
When she bit at your throat did you forget 

My lord's bite leaves a lover cold. 
And the dew is wet ? 

And you of the mangled breast and face, 
How do you curse from the ruined shell. 

My lord his soul to the lowest place 
In the pits of hell! 

69 



I would gird at these antique amorists, 
Men and women who loved and lost, 

Siezed at pleasure with hankering fists, 
Nor counted the cost; 

Only I cannot help but think. 

In the ceaseless clash of our money war, 

Was not the woman of white and pink 
Worth fighting for ? 

Isn't it worth a lover's best. 

When the hair is gold and the lips are red. 
To press for a little the round white breast 

With the tawny head ? 

To drain of the soft, slack lips their store, 
Till the wine of life and of love be spilt. 

While the black-browed husband beats at the door 
With an angry hilt ? 

Oh, it is easy to speculate, 

To think how we would have conquered lust! 
Prince, we are in the hands of Fate, 

And the rest is dust. 



A LAMENTATION 

How are our lives lop-sided, the hope of our hearts awry! 
We hobble along the highway and halt on the palace 

stairs, 
We stumble upon hid treasures or we go to sleep in a stye; 
There is none, I wis, on the face of all the earth who cares, 
For the Lord of heaven is busy about His own affairs. 

70 



How do we go blindfolded and wander as in a game. 
And are pulled from side to side, and cheated as children 

cheat; 
Following a woman's voice or fooled by the music of 

Fame, 
Headstrong for happiness when the taste on our lips is 

sweet. 
Or gagging at God when He gives us the gall and the 

wormwood to eat. 

How is our peace departed, the strength of our manhood 
spilled. 

In a lust of fruitless endeavor for that which may not 
remain, 

And each of us walks the planet with a purpose unful- 
filled. 

Balked of his soul's best birthright, baffled of heart and 
brain. 

And he calls to his gods as his fathers before him called, 
in vain. 

But is it the end, good brother ? Have you sifted the 

question well ? 
Is there no meaning to labor, no gladness in the grave ? 
Do you plead the cause of Satan and take out a brief for 

hell, 
That you picture the life of man as the life of a cringing 

slave, 
Running the errands of Fortune, the tool of the strumpet 

and knave ? 

Vainly you strike at man, you have shot wide of the mark; 
Feeble is he at best, as grass on the housetop sere, 
He stands with the stars about him a pitiful thing and 
stark, 

71 



But he keepeth one thing precious, a spirit that knows not 

fear 
A spirit that plunges into the thick of the fight with a 

cheer. 

How shall a god, or a mountain of gods, despise or damn 
A man who will keep his grit, who will neither dodge nor 

kneel, 
Who laughs in their swollen faces and says, "What I am, 

I am — 
A very common fellow and son of the commonweal, 
I will willingly fare as my fellows fare and feel what they 

feel." 

How shall they go about to recompense such a one .? 
What is there that he flees from, on what hath he set his 

heart ? 
He is a stock in his blindness and altogether a stone. 
Hell hath no rack or strappado to make his spirit start, 
And heaven no delicatesse with which he is loath to part. 

He is safe as a bird in nest, as a swallow under a roof. 
He hath no need to solicit, for God is his host and guest. 
He standeth and falleth alone, doing all in his own behoof. 
In himself he is cursed, if cursed, and blest in himself, if 

blest, 
Builded in God Almighty, he is safe as a bird in nest. 

Vainly you strike at man, good brother, your shots are 

vain; 
He hath eluded you, he hath broken your bands like tow; 
Where now is the horse and rider, desire and fear and 

pain ? 
Have they not utterly vanished, is not their pride brought 

low ? 
Behold, the man is rooted in God; shall he not grow ? 

72 



AN EVENING HYMN 

One word of praise before the daylight fades, 
One hymn of hope before the night begins: 
Dear God, thy ways are wonderful to us. 
Yet, after all, our own old ways are best. 

He trusts in God who leans upon himself. 
He flees from God who turns back on himself; 
All good of flesh and grace of mind are his 
Who boldly lives a conscious egotist. 

God loves the wise man and he scorns the fool : 
Children and lovers and the shiftless sons of men 
Alone are wise, being thrifty of their souls, 
Though slack as men count slackness. 

Shall not the pensioners of God be lavish r 
Shall not he spend who draws unlimited 
And promptly honored drafts on God almighty ? 
Who may dishonor him whom God accepts ? 

The prudent of this world and niggardly 
Would haggle o'er a dime, and comment long 
Anent a debt of dollars. Owe you not 
Debts dearer than your dollars, even love ? 

Why, as this world goes, I would rather be 
Some lousy beggar sitting in the sun 
And wearing out the day with bawdy talk, 
Than one of your close-fisted cynic souls, 

Trim, competent, suave, and cold, 
A-sitting in his ofiice dealing out 
The dollars he has never earned — 
Dealing cold bloodedly in human hearts. 

73 



Why should not children, beggars, idiots, 
Be glad and clap their hands, for God the great, 
Has run in debt to them a good stiff sum, 
Covering some years ? Shall God not pay ? 

Men cannot, sometimes will not, pay their debts. 
But thou, dear God, dost always liquidate 
To the last farthing, interest and all. 
The lucky man is he whom God owes most. 

MILK FOR BABES 

The best of life is none too good 
To suit my present robust mood, 
I hanker for the strong force meat 
That criminals and heroes eat. 

The soft mush of the magazines 
Is only fit for wives and weans. 
Decorous, dull, divinely flat. 
Who cares to feed on stuff like that ? 

Why can't they give us life indeed 
In throbbing words that ache and bleed 
With all the poignancy of this 
Warm human world that round us is ? 

Why can't they give us what we want — 
Muscles that hurt and hearts that pant. 
Rude hungers, hates, and appetites. 
Repulsions, cravings, causeless slights f 

Surely 'twas not designed that we 
Should all of us have cakes and tea 
For endless aliment, unmeet 
For men who love the strong and sweet. 

74 



Surely it was designed that we 
Should love the strong and sweet and free 
Life of our forbears on this ball — 
Bold, fierce-eyed Aryan lovers all. 

We are not servants to the law, 
We were not formed to hew and draw, 
Our mission and our joy is one — 
To loaf beneath a southern sun; 

To loaf before the tent wherein 
Our women gossip, grind, or spin, — 
Good, soft, brown women, more than one 
To solace us when day is done. 

This is the life that I would live, 
Unanxious, lazy, primitive; 
Full of base hungers basely fed 
With women's lips and wines as red. 

I should sit long beneath the sun 
Thinking on God till day was done,^ — 
The God who is in man and beast, 
As in the great so in the least. 

I should think long on God and then 
Turn inward to my tent again. 
To solace me throughout the night 
With those sweet vessels of delight, 

My good, brown wives, soft, warm, a-fire 
With jealousy and with desire. 
How would I spend my life among 
Those girls desirable and young! 



75 



The best of life is none too good 
To suit my present robust mood, 
I hanker for the strong force meat 
That criminals and heroes eat. 



FORTUNE 

Fortune is a merry jade, 

Fortune is a snide, 
Ever I have w^ooed the maid, 

Ever vv^as denied. 

So at last I made a vow^ 

Never more to w^oo; 
Pay my scot and take my lot 

Heedless of her, too. 

Presently she came to me 

Willing now to bless, 
But I let the baggage be. 

Laughed at her caress. 

What care I for smile or frown ? 

Fortune is a snide — 
I have paid my nickel down, 

I am going to ride. 



76 



FRIEND DEATH 

Friend Death, quoth he, a moment stay, 
Till I have finished my score with life, 

Who has fooled and cheated me all the way 
With a witless strife. 

Friend Death, quoth he, a moment stay, 

I have a duty yet to do, 
There is the devil still to pay, 

A good stiff reckoning too. 

Friend Death, quoth he, a moment stay, 
What of my wife and little one ? 

I must warn them well while yet it is day 
Of the setting sun. 

Friend Death, quoth he, a moment stay, 
A drink and a kiss for luck at the last; 

I was ever one for a daring play, 
Staked all on a cast. 

Friend Death, quoth he, a moment stay, 
I must have time to think on God; 

Surely you give one time to pray — 
So soon a clod. 

Friend Death, quoth he, a moment stay. 
It will all be over so soon, so soon ; 

I hear the pipes of my boyhood play 
An old, old tune. 

Friend Death, quoth he, O friendly Death, 
The music is calling and I am fain. 

Fain for the home where I first drew breath. 
And my mother again. 

77 



I HAVE SEEN THE BOY GO FIGHTING 

I have seen the boy go fighting or wooing on a day, 

I have felt my blood go bounding when the bands began 

to play, 
I have heard the call to duty — the rally of the race — 
And the boy was skulking, skulking, with a white and 

stricken face. 

I have seen a man and woman go walking hand in hand 
And what they saw and what they dreamed I could not 

understand, 
Till I felt the old sex instinct — the hunger for the race — 
But the boy was skulking, skulking, with shame upon his 

face. 

I have seen the hearts of old men like flakes of tinder 

burn, 
I have seen the eyes of maidens with sudden wonder 

yearn. 
For love is for a lifetime, but lust is for the race. 
And one is in king's houses and one in every place. 

I have seen the boy go fighting or wooing on a day, 

And God in heaven smiled to see he thought them only 

play, 
But the boy was much mistaken and found it so at last. 
When they tossed him in the furrow where the soldiers 

dead were cast. 

It is not much to write about, it is not much to say. 

But when a boy goes wooing or fighting on a day, 

It is for life and death he woos, for life and death he 

fights. 
And mustering and marriage are mighty solemn rites. 

78 



Oh, you can turn deserter, you can put away your wife, 
But the loss in either case, my boy, is dearer than your 

life. 
'Tis no excuse the cause was wrong, your woman was a 

shrew, 

For by the God in heaven you shirked the thing you set 
to do. 

Now by the God in heaven, was the woman weak and 

light, 
You had no business then to sleep beside her for a night; 
For a man may be a eunuch for the good kingdom's sake. 
But he may not gamble with a girl and then withdraw the 

stake. 

He may not play at barter with woman for a fee, 

For when the twain was made one flesh, behold and there 

were three; 
For God is a third party to every contract made, 
And he who dares annul the knot of Him is unafraid. 

For God is a third party and will by hook or crook 

Exact the last iota of every vow you took; 

It is not for a lifetime, it is not for a day 

But for the race you marry and to the race you pay. 



I AM THE POET 

I am the poet who goes up and down 
Questioning statesman, professor, or clown; 
Valiantly asking nor waiting to see 
What sort of answers they're answering me. 

79 



I am commissioned by Jesus, the king, 
Certain petitions to instantly bring; 
Hear ye, oh, hear ye, good people, I pray; 
Answer the questions I ask you to-day: 

What shall it profit a man of his gold 

If God be not bought on the market and sold ? 

What shall it profit his life if he lose 

Taste for its savors and power to use ? 

Hear ye, O bodies of fine woven flesh. 
Hear ye, O intellects haughty and fresh. 
What shall it profit your brawn and your brain 
If ye must turn to the darkness again ? 

What shall it profit the pride of your lust 
When ye go down to your mother, the dust ? 
What shall it profit your glimpses of God 
When ye descend to your sister, the clod r 

Nay, ye are out, ye have all gone astray. 
Seeking a Saviour, each man in his way. 
Seeking in Bible, in pulpit, in creed, 
Grub for the journey and succor in need. 

Hear ye, O people, so lonely and poor, 
Jesus, the merciful, halts at your door; 
See how His camels and she-asses wait 
Loaden with treasure, — ho, open the gate. 

Yea, open your portals, take out every pin, 
Let sunshine and glory and glad service in, 
Burn up the stored trifles of body and brain. 
With God as your factor need ye save again ? 

80 



With God in each closet and spread on the board, 
Need ye slave at your labor or scrimpingly hoard ? 
With God in the garden, the cellar, the bin. 
Rather build ye new garners to hold the truth in. 

Hear ye, worn bodies and worn souls of men, 
Ye never need thirst or be hungry again, 
For Jesus, the merciful, halts at your door, 
And the days of the years of your bondage are o'er. 

THE PSALMIST SAITH, MY DAYS ARE LIKE A 
FLOWER 

The Psalmist saith. My days are like a flower, 

They pass away like grass that withereth; 

The King saith, All is vanity, 

A strife for wind and war of many moods. 

The Lord in heaven leered upon them both. 

Are they not mine, saith He, poets and kings ? 

They hold their undetermined days at my command, 

Their wisdoms and their follies, concubines 

And wives, the solemn days when David went 

In sweet accord with brethren to my house. 

And when he looked with oriental greed 

Where Bathsheba was bathing — all are mine, 

The fine, the foul, the vacillating, and the brave, 

And not one thing is vanity. 

Oh, ho, 
Saith God, it is a merry argument — 
Not one thing vanity in all my world, 
But everything quite, quite respectable. 
Beshrew me, but my church is insolent. 
My white-robed priests and vestals insolent 
And blind to my best leadings and the call 

81 



Of instincts clean in every living thing. 
They ward me off at every turn lest some, 
Some graceless, witty FalstafFof a man. 
Rotund in girth and morals, or some plump 
Simpering Doll Tearsheet of a woman should 
Rub their bleared eyes, and lo, myself at hand. 
For it would be a pity out of church 
In taverns low to find me in my son. 

It is not much a man may say for God, 
But this one thing he surely may assert. 
That heaven's nearest is man's humanest, 
Man's worst a challenge to God's very best. 
And all the long sad course of human creeds 
From cave unto cathedral, step by step. 
Rising from bondage unto freedom is 
Exactly parallel with the slow growth 
Of faith in human goodness. Hope in God 
And hope in man go hand in hand. We may 
Believe that God at least is better than 
The best of us, and that His tender love 
Is sweeter than our tenderest desire. 

A WOMAN'S DESIRE 

I would that my good master, this Jesus of the poor. 
Would beat some sunny morning a rattat on my door; 
Now wouldn't I rise quickly and turn the rusty key. 
If Jesus, my good master, should come to call on me! 

I'd brush a chair off nicely and ask him to sit down, 

I would not wait to fix my hair or change my morning 

gown; 
And if he'd had no breakfast, I'd ask him to sit up 
And have a cup of tea with me, — oh, I would fill his cup. 

82 



And he should have his buttered toast as if he were a 

king, 
I'd be no niggard on the day when he came visiting; 
There'd not be very much to eat, but oh, how glad I'd be 
To share my little all with him if he should call on me! 

And then I'd bring the album out and we would look it 

through, — 
Those dear old pictures of the folks, perhaps he'd know 

them, too. 
I'd ask him all about them, if father looks the same, 
If mother has grown older, if Abel still is lame. 

Now, wouldn't it be pleasant just to talk one's own folks 

o'er 
With one who sees them every day, the Jesus of the poor; 
How we would sit and visit from morning light till even 
A gossiping about the things they say and do in heaven. 

Forallmy friends, my really friends, have gone there long 

ago. 
And I just sit some mornings and hanker for them so; 
If I could see them for an hour how happy I would be, 
Or better yet to talk with Christ if he should visit me. 

Oh, you may laugh and shake your head — "a poor old 

woman's whim," — 
But some day he will come to me, I need not hunt for him; 
Some bright and sunny morning I shall hear him at the 

door, 
I shall hear his voice a-calling, this Jesus ofthe poor. 

He'll say, "Get up, Alzina, the sun is shining bright, 
I've brought you here your wedding gear, a garment all 
of white; 

83 



So rise and dress you quickly, you must come and go with 

me 
Where all your friends are waiting beside the crystal sea. 

"You need not stop to fix your hair, or worry o'er a thing, 
For no one in the town shall know when you and I take 

wing; 
You shall leave the unwashed dishes, and the dirt upon 

the floor. 
You shall leave the pinched housekeeping, it shall trouble 

you no more. 

"You shall come with me this morning, we will talk upon 

the way 
All about the dear home people in the realms of endless 

day; 
I shall treat you like a sister and how happy you will be, 
For that in your life you hankered oftentimes to talk with 

me. 

THE HOMEKEEPER 

If we go, or if we come, 
God, the quiet, bides at home. 

Though your neighbors all take ship 
For a European trip; 

Though your fellow-workers fare 
Pleasure hunting here and there; 

Though your rich acquaintance take 
Pullmans for the mount and lake; 



84 



Though your boss and pastor hie 
From the terrors of July; 

Though your wife and children leave 
On a month or so's reprieve: 

Do you stay at home and labor, 
All unenvious of your neighbor. 

You may find v^hat they do seek 
In the forest and the creek, 

And not travel any more 

Than a rod from your front door. 

Behind city roofs the sun 
Sinks as behind Pelion; 

And a summer morning wakes 
City streets as mountain lakes. 

And the silent stars look down 
On a dull and dingy town 

With the same calm look of peace 
They peer through the forest trees. 

Though the summer boarder tries 
Health to find in casting flies; 

You may gain what he does not 
Digging in your city lot. 

Health is not so hard to find, 
Rest is mostly in the mind, 



85 



He whose heart is wisely gay 
Has perpetual holiday; 

While the man whose spirit quakes 
Takes no joy in mountain lakes. 

If we go or if we come, 

God, the quiet, bides at home. 



RIDERS 

Dear lad, we've rode the world around, 
Together we have gone the pace, 

Still do our jaded pulses bound 
Remembering that eager race. 

We followed far, we followed fast, 
Nor whip nor bloody spur was spared. 

And we are well content at last 

To know that we have ridden hard. 

To hell with the brush! we said, what odds 

Who win's a fox's tail if we. 
Regardless of the men and gods. 

Ride swift and hard and glad and free ? 

But we are tired to-night and broke 
The steeds that bore us then so well, — 

Here comes the parson with his croak 
Of missing heaven and winning hell! 

What do we care who once have rode 
Hard and hard for the good ride's sake ? 

How though we journey to death's abode, 
Willingly we will pay our stake. 



86 



J 



What do we care who once have stayed 
Many a night at the Sign of the Horn, 

Drank our measure and kissed the maid 
And paid for both in the rosy morn; 

Paid our reckoning and rallied all. 
Booted and saddled and ready to ride 

Far and fast at the captain's call, 
Over and up the mountain side ? 

Willingly now we will take our place 
Here at the bottom and gossip well. 

How once we rode an eager race. 
Comrade dear, with death and hell. 



THE MASKER 

I went abroad to meet him when the sun was in the sky. 

And I hurried back to greet him when the slanting shad- 
ows lie; 

The morning broke before me with the same old sudden 
joy 

I beheld it in a thousand thousand daybreaks as a boy, — 

All the heavens splashed with splendor, all the earth a 
golden haze, 

And the green things dashed with glory far into the wood- 
land ways, 

When there came a crash of music and the long gonfalons 

fly' 

And the world's agog with wonder, and the sun is in his 
sky. 

87 



I went abroad to meet him; up and down the village 

street 
I would stop and question eagerly each journeyman I'd 

meet. 
And some would answer blithely and some would answer 

nay. 
But I failed to meet him, greet him, as I wended on my 

way. 
Through the streets and through the meadows so I wan- 
dered all day long. 
Saw quick flashes in the forest, caught the broken lilts of 

song. 
But the wonder fled before me and the wild things ran 

apace. 
And the place of him and grace of him was hidden from 

my face. 

I went abroad to meet him and I sadly hurried back. 
The shadows lay like living things all along my track, 
The shadows lay and lengthened and the banners all were 

furled 
As the armies of the sunshine went shifting round the 

world. 
There was sadness in the forest and heartache among the 

trees 
As if a friend were leaving them deject and void of ease, — 
The friend whom I was hunting, the man of many masks. 
Who night and day sits by the way and countless ques- 
tions asks. 

I went abroad to meet him, and I hurried home again 
To sit among familiar forms of women and of men. 
To sit among familiar forms of man and maiden child 
And ask them eagerly the things for which my heart was 
wild : 

88 



Have you seen the Man among us, has a stranger knocked 

to-day ? 
Was there any message hidden in your business or your 

play ? 
Has the mystery been broken, has the mask been pulled 

aside, 
Or must I pine forever for the Face which is denied ? 

I v^ent abroad to meet him in dreams upon my bed; 
My body lay a lump of clay as one who long is dead. 
My body lay a lump of clay, my soul was wayfaring 
Within a forest dark wherein no little birds may sing. 
Upon a road whereon the foot of mortal never trod, — 
A silent space of unguessed grace which is the life of God; 
And there I saw the face of him my mirror shows each 

day, 
The face of him and grace of him I sought upon the way. 

FOR FIVE AND THIRTY YEARS BENEATH THE 
MOULD 

For five and thirty years beneath the mould 
I groped and struggled looking for the light, 
Pushing out tentative pale suckers towards 
The sun and blind soft rootlets for the wet: 
For five and thirty years within the womb 
Of circumstance I lay and travailed hard, 
With pangs of waking sense and stirring life, 
And all the potency of dawning breath 
And blood, and all the faint beginnings of 
A consciousness and will not yet detached 
From its environment of mother earth: 
For five and thirty years I crawled along 
From leaf to leaf, a larval latent life. 
Sucking my nourishment from things beneath, 

89 



And counting all God's friendly universe, 

The swinging planets and the throned immortals, 

Just the scenic background for a worm 

That wriggles his foul way across a leaf. 

I have broke through the crusted earth at last. 
My two brave cotyledons greet the sun, 
The sap feels good along my thousand veins. 
My roots strike deep and may not be removed, 
My tendrils flare and curl, my green leaves spread 
To catch the light and dew; I have arrived. 
And blindly now no more I push the mould. 
But sensitive, erect, and strong I seek 
Further unfoldment into bud and flower; 
I yearn for insects and the surly hum 
Of bees among my petals. God is good; 
A well of water failing nevermore. 
The sunshine and the air and clorophyl 
And all the glory that a plant can want. 

And I am born anew, out of the womb 
Of cosmic circumstance wherein I lay — 
The kindly matrix of the universe. 
Holding the races folded safe and sound 
During long years of slow development 
And differentiation dangerous 
If free — into the light and liberty 
Of a new heaven and earth. I have arrived. 
Who tarried long and fumbled much in those 
Dull years of unobserved enlargement. I 
Have got at last a friction clutch upon 
God's swinging universe. No more for me 
The halting betwixt stools, confused attempts. 
And baffled purpose of prenatal life. 
I've kicked the swaddling bands of custom far, 
Bursted at last the envelope of fear, 
90 



And found myself at home, firm in my place, 
Whence all the gods and all the devils too 
Shall not me move an inch. Ho, there, you slaves 
Of circumstance, behold me — I am free! 

And I have found my wings, a butterfly; 

My playground is the balmy atmosphere, 

My life so beautifully different 

To v^hat I ever was and better than the best 

I ever dreamed of on my cabbage leaf. 

Oh, it is good to be a butterfly 

And feed on flowers, and find my duty just 

The thing I think is most desirable — 

To spread my delicate brave wings abroad 

And beat them through the sunny waves of air, 

And lift and lower, and follow azure miles 

My amorous and coyly flying mate, 

And bathe in colors marvelous and bold. 

And make all life one glad and strong pursuit 

Of hue and fragrance infinitely dear. 

It's worth one's while sometime to make a break 

For liberty. God never meant his sons 

To play the part of supes and hangers on 

In this good world created new each day. 

He never meant that you and I should go 

Gawking about His universe guessing 

At things with open mouths and saucer eyes, 

In vacant admiration and surprise. 

My friends, it is our home, the father's house. 

The old eternal farmstead of the race, 

And we no strangers, He no niggard host. 

This inn of life our everlasting place, 

The host our dear and most familiar friend. 



91 



We are well fixed, because we fixed ourselves 
Through endless aeons in these breathing walls; 
Ours were the hands that piled these arches high, 
And buttressed up the battlements of heaven. 
And brimmed the oceans and flung wide the winds. 
Ages ago we made us man in our 
Own image, fierce and violent, and as 
The years go by still make we newer man 
By better norms, in faith and gentleness. 
But always very human handiwork. 

To be reborn, as Jesus said, is just 
To go back to our childhood's faith again 
Before the dream of sex and soul began, 
When we went naked in our little worlds 
And unashamed, when we went sinless in 
The spite of all our faults because we were 
A gay and perfect law unto ourselves. 
Accept your life, its seeming overthrow. 
With zest unbated, like a little child, 
Ready for all encounters, rising up. 
Wiping its flashing eyes, and on again 
To the next play with undiminished hope. 

To be reborn, as Jesus meant, is to 
Emerge from a cramped prison house of flesh. 
Bursting the ligaments of sense and fear. 
Unto a new and living hope whereby 
We lay ahold of God Almighty's hand 
And lift us, lift us like the writhing snake 
Slufiing his skin, or like the grub that feels 
The work of wings within his huddled hous*.. 
And strains and travails, throws himself from side 
To side in agony of aspiration, 
Rests, and tries again until at last 
He lies exhausted by the caddis shell 
92 



And wonders at his wings and at the fine 
New insect body with its fine new things 
To do and bold adventure of the unknown air. 

To be reborn, as Jesus said, is not 

A little philosophical assent, 

Nor pretty pious stunt one does in church 

When all the knees are crooked and every one 

Snuffles in unison, and says. Amen. 

It rather is the shifting of the weight 

Of human thought and judgment from the seen 

To the unseen, from the cramped life of self 

To the impersonal and perfect life, 

The ground of human thought, unconscious mind. 

The light that is in man and that is God. 

To be reborn is to be different 
To anything one ever was before. 
Kindred of God and all that He has made. 
Full of new powers and unguessed sympathies. 
Attractions and repulsions spiritual. 
Gifts, prophecies, and tongues remarkable. 
It is to pray unceasing, while one says 
No word, to give abundantly while still 
Possessing nothing, to economize 
By losing all. A man may thank his stars, 
Among a generation of base men 
Who war for gold, if he by any means 
May save his soul, avoid entanglements, 
And show somewhat to God for his day's work. 

To be reborn is to awake to God — 
His homely presence in the quiet house, 
His head beside you on the pillow pressed, 
His face before you when the board is spread, 

93 



His fingers on the pen with which you write, 

His thought beneath the thought you seem to 

think. 
There is one spirit at the base and top, 
At center and circumference the same, 
In least and greatest of the same account, — 
The mind of God girdling the mind of man. 

For five and thirty years I played the fool 

And followed fashions set by other folk; 

I ate and drank and dressed and thought and 

worked 
To please my friends, and did not please my 

friends. 
From this time forward, I, so help me God, 
Myself will set the fashions for myself, 
And eat and drink and dress and think and work 
To please myself and only please myself. 
Who is my friend if I am not my friend. 
Who shall redeem me if I cannot save, 
Who is for God that is not for himself ? 



LORDS 

Love spake, My lips are wet. 

My voice is like the sound of dulcimers. 
Or like the wind that walks amid the firs, 

Humble with vain regret. 

Life spake. Mine eyes are deep, 

My footsteps are the way of wind and flame. 
My masks are many but my thought selfsame, 

I put mankind on sleep. 

94 



Death spake, My mouth is grim, 

Myself am sweeter than a young man's love. 
Stronger than Hfe or the pale hope thereof, 

I am the last lost whim. 



MARY, MARY, MOTHER OF GOD 

Mary, Mary, mother of God, 

Sister of all men born, 
Why must we women kiss the rod 

And hug the cruel thorn ? 

Is there no way unknown of pain 

For women to possess ? 
Is there no love untouched of stain 

A woman's heart to bless ? 

Daughter of man, and dear to God, 

Mistress of all men born. 
There is no love without its rod. 

No rose without its thorn, 

No way a woman's feet may press 
Unset of briers, unknown of pain. 

No instinct that she may possess 
So spotless as to have no stain. 

But true it is as God is true. 

That woman slowly lifts the race 

The long dark course of ages through 
Unto its honorable place. 

By virtue of her motherhood — 
Am I not spouse and mother of God ? 

She tastes the sadness of the rood, 
The bitter torture of the rod. 



95 



And through the man child born of her — 
Held I not Jesus to my breast ? — 

Comes the good kingdom's harbinger 
Wherein the race of men are blest. 

IF THE BRAWNLESS POETS GIVE THEE PEACE 

If the brawnless poets give thee peace, 
If the feckless preachers give thee hell, 

I give thee joy of thy soul's release — 
It is very well. 

Contrariwise, if the pious shout 

And the snuffing people speak thee well, 

'Tis time for thee to step down and out — 
It is very hell. 

Out into the world of folk again. 
The wilful untamed spawn of hell, 

The world of women and women's men 
Who do quite well. 

How can a whimpering worshipper pray ? 

What hath a woman saint to tell ? 
Why, the gods go mad on a summer day, 

When the young leaves swell. 

The gods go mad, and the world runs red 
With a vintage pressed in the fats of hell, — 

Shall a man forget how his brethren bled. 
When the world went well ? 

An old, old world, and a world old tale, 

And many a weary league to run, 
Ere sap and sinew and artery fail 

With the failing sun. 



96 



But the gods know well while the game proceeds 
'Tis a finger's fillip 'twixt heaven and hell, 

And a soul is damned for a body's deeds, 
The gods know well. 

So for the woman and so for the man 

Little it is we may foretell. 
But the gods will end what the gods began — 

It is very well. 



WHAT, SAITH THE PREACHER 

What, saith the Preacher, our life is a little day, 

Like leaves of autumn we rise and are vainly whistled 

away. 
Like leaves in the wind we flutter and take our flight, 
Now green on the branch, now touched with a moribund 

light; 

Vain is the sermon preached, and vain are the lips that 

applaud, 
Vain is the hand that gathers, as vain as the hand that 

strawed, 
For the heart of us and the brain of us lie together in dust, 
And what hath a man at the last for all of his hope and his 

trust ? 

Yea, for the life of man, 'tis vain at the last as the first. 
For the woman who lays him out as for the woman who 

nursed: 
A man child was born in the house and the gossiping 

women were glad. 
And now he hath ceased from his labors and the women 

would fain be sad. 

97 



Yea saith the Preacher, 'tis vain, and words are facile 

and cheap, 
Ye may have your fill of words forsooth, and then, quoth 

he, to sleep, 
For a man may love and lie, he may fight to the end and 

fail. 
The story of his inventions is a sad and twicetold tale. 

He knows not what he begins, nor where the thing shall 

end. 
Nor V hether at any time he slays an enemy or friend; 
The good not wholly good, the evil thing most sweet, . 
And all the world of circumstance aslide beneath his feet. 

Vain is he in his boyhood and vain when he comes to a 

man, 
Dreaming the things he cannot, scorning the things he 

can, 
Alway a-search for pleasure, alway a-beating the field 
For finer, fairer quarries than yesterday could yield; 

Flinging over the fences, faring with infinite zest 
After a finer foxtail, after a whiter breast. 
Letting the old go begging, leaving the wife unkissed, 
Alway anhungered for pleasure with hankering heart and 
fist. 

Yea, saith the Preacher, the first of it and the last of it 

are the same. 
And man hath alway played and plays a fond and losing 

game, 
For God hath packed his cards and tosseth loaded dice 
And a man may only make his terms at a heavy sacrifice. 

98 



There is not much to say for a life that is very brief, 
Harried, as Job hath said, like a driven autumn leaf; 
For man w^ho is most vain there is not much to say, 
But he can v^ait in patience and ask his God some day. 

A CHRISTMAS BALLAD 

In the land of Jewry, 

Long years ago. 
There dwelt a lady 

Pure as the snow. 

In April weather. 

When flowers bloom, 
God's holy spirit 

Entered her womb. 

All in the winter 

There was a knight 
Born of her body. 

Like the snow white. 

Had she for gossips 

Oxen in stall; 
Each bent his mighty head 

Lowly in thrall; 

Candle in chamber 

Had she there none, 
Over the manger 

A great star shone; 

Thrice called the lady, 

Great was her pang, 
God in her bosom 

Leapt so and sprang; 

99 



All the neat cattle 
Wept for to hear 

Mary in travail 
With her Son dear; 

All the neat cattle 
Knelt at her feet 

When little Jesu 
'Gan for to greet. 

Was e'er a lady 
So sore bestead. 

With straw in stable 
For a childbed ? 

Was e'er a noble 

So lowly born 
As little Jesu 

In the gray morn ? 

Grant, holy Spirit, 
We may all see 

Jesu in glory 

And Lady Marie. 



AMERICA 

They make their girds at a giant race, 

They sneer at a Titan brood. 
Whose hands are desolate of grace, 

Whose lips are free and rude; 
Whose feet run tireless to and fro, 

From sea to sea, from town to town, 
From tropic sun to polar snow 

To chase the gilded dollar down. 

100 



A sordid crew, a much mixed breed, 

Alone by greed and cunning joined. 
Narrow in thought but bold in deed — 

Pirate and Puritan combined; 
The ends of all the world, as Paul 

Has phrased it, here together brought — 
The ofFal of the earth and all 

Rag tags of outworn faith and thought. 

America, the land of fads, 

The home of graft and dollar-lust. 
Who shall recall her myriads 

When they are sleeping in the dust ? 
Who shall decipher one small stone 

Beside her desert marts and streams 
To tell how here and there was one 

Among her hosts who dreamed his dreams — 

Forgot the pulsing beat of trade, 

Escaped the city's rush and roar, 
And worshipped truth all unafraid. 

Content with this nor asked for more; 
Content to spend the shimmering day 

In little walks not far from home, 
In little talks upon the way, 

And quiet arts unburdensome; 

Who made him, while the others fought 

With nail and tooth for dust of gold, 
A dwelling of poetic thought. 

Whose beams and rafters are of old; 
A dwelling-place of human art. 

Of subtly fashioned life and grace — 
The home of humble men of heart, 

Whose ministry is for the race ? 

101 



Ah, these are they whose lordlinesr 

Is better than the copper kings^ 
Masters who teach our souls to gut. 

Of better things than money brings; 
These are the true Americans, 

The remnant saved and born to save, 
When poHticians and their plans 

Are buried in an unknown grave. 



THE DOVES GO FLYING HOME 

The doves go flying home, one with another, 

I watch them as they circle to and fro. 
And I would also fare me home, my mother, 
' To the dear home my childhood used to know. 

The yard, the well, the wide porch, still is waiting, 

I see them very often in my dreams. 
The very sparrows with their morning prating 

Din at my window yet, or so it seems. 

But thou art gone and there can be no other, 
No heart God ever made could take thy place; 

Then who shall comfort me to-night, my mother. 
And whose face ever shall be like thy face ? 

The doves go flying home, fain would I follow 
To some small house where I might take my rest; 

But where is there beneath the wide heaven's hollow 
So safe a place for me as was thy breast ? 

My soul, flee as a bird unto your mountain; 

So saith the Scripture, so my sorrow saith; 
But where is now thy love that like a fountain 

Made glad this desert place from birth to death ? 

102 



The doves go flying home, one with another, 
Each hath his house and each his gentle mate; 

I watch alone the live-long night, my mother, 
For thy dear face I only watch and wait: 

But there shall come a time, dear heart, believe mc 
When we shall see each other face to face; 

Once more thine arms shall open to receive me. 
And I shall find at last my resting-place. 

LEADINGS 

Where roses beckon I will go, 

Where lilies lead I follow, 
The quiet paths that children know 

Through vernal mead and hollow. 

Where banks of sunburnt goldenrod 
And lush green fields of clover 

Grow lavish as the love of God 
That spreads the wide world over; 

Where every dewy morning brings 

No hint of coming sorrow, 
Where never mournful poet sings, 

"To-morrow and to-morrow — , " 

Where just to be is quite enough, 
Without such painful caring, 

Where not a road is made too rough 
For children's thoroughfaring, 

Where tall sunflowers bend and nod, 

Brimful of pollen golden. 
As lavish as the love of God 

About our lives enfolden. 



103 



DEAR GOD, STRONG GOD 

Dear God, strong God, can't you hear me call ? 

Don't you know my need of you is greater than them all ? 

Don't you know I've borne the brunt and the heat of day, 
I have sweat and toiled for you since the dawn was gray ? 

Can't you see I love you, Lord ? Can't you help a bit ? 
Can't you strengthen the weak knees when I cry for it ? 

Don't you see I cannot walk, I stumble and I fall ? 
Dear God, strong God, can't you hear me call ? 



GREETINGS 

To friends behind : 

Health, strength, and lengthened days. 
And comfort in the well-worn ways, 

The good old pathways of the mind. 

To friends ahead: 

Health, hope, and higher views, 
The larger outlook and the nobler use 

Of men whose old defects are shed. 

To friends behind: 

Quiet and confidence and calm delight 
In the sure heritage of day and night. 

Sufficient for the needs of humankind. 

To friends ahead: 

Luck and the rigor of the game. 

And, win or lose, to stand alike the same 

Masters of fortunes, brothers of the dead. 



104 



JOHN, A BAPTIST 

When John went into the wilderness, 

Driven by the ghost of God, I guess, 

Clad in a tunic of camel's hair, 

With a leathern girdle about his waist; 

Stony his life and hard the fare 

When the desert locust seemed good to taste. 

When John went into the wilderness 
Driven by the ghost of God, I guess, 
The people sneered and the people smiled: 
What shall he find out there, they said, 
Save the face of nature bleak and wild, 
The hard, hot face of the desert dead ? 

When John went into the wilderness 
Driven by the ghost of God, I guess, 
The peevish people waited awhile. 
Then followed him to the desert place — 
Forgot to twiddle and to smile. 
And pulled them each a pious face. 

When the folk went into the wilderness 
Driven by the ghost of God, I guess. 
One spake to them in mocking kind: 
What went ye forth then for to see ? 
A slim reed wagging in the wind ? 
A courtier in his finery ? 

When the folk went into the wilderness 
Driven by the ghost of God, I guess, 
They heard a voice and they saw a face, 
They listened and wept for a little while — 
Then each went back to his same old place. 
With the same complacent, pious smile. 

105 



When the folk went into the wilderness, 

Much like you and me, I guess, 

They heard their sermon and made their prayer 

And turned to dinner with undue haste, 

For a prickly tunic of camel's hair 

Is, to say the least, in very bad taste. 

When John went into the wilderness, 
Driven by the ghost of God, I guess, 
His audience, like you and I, 
Listened with a raptured smile, 
Then turned to its burden with a sigh 
And forgot it all in a little while. 

When John went into the wilderness 

He preached the kingdom of God, I guess; 

Strange to say from that day till this. 

Though the preachers preach with a right good 

will. 
Not one dreams where the kingdom is 
Or where its princes wander still. 

If we should go to the wilderness 
Driven by the ghost of God, I guess; 
If we should stay and hold our peace, 
And wait for Him, and wait for Him — 
We should find belike our soul's release. 
And paths would never more be dim. 

If we should go to the wilderness 

Side by the side of Christ, I guess; 

The hard, hot face of the place would bloom. 

And green grass wave where his feet should 

tread; 
Our old, sweet youth would rise from the tomb 
With the sweet old hopes of childhood dead. 

106 



If we should go to the wilderness 

Side by the side of Christ, I guess; 

We should know that the kingdom means at 

least, 
Not loaves and fishes, but love and truth, 
Not the barren precepts of the priest 
But the loving heart of our old lost youth. 

If we should go to the wilderness 

Side by the side of Love, I guess ; 

We should know what the mountains say, 

And the sluggish stream, and the desert 

flowers — 
That God is ours in the same sweet way 
That the love of a man or a woman is ours : 

Ours to cherish and to bless 
In garden or in wilderness, 
Never to mock or to affright. 
Never to hurt or to annoy — 
Only the same sWeet love and light 
We knew as a maiden or a boy. 



THE POET 

He walked apart with frozen tongue 

And a pungent devil in his eye; 
He had no coil with old or young, 

Yet people feared, they knew not why; 

By and by they broke this crust — 

One came from the town of his buried past 

With tales of villainy and lust: 
The r»>-ncing people stood aghast. 

107 



The poet rose with nerve sublime: 
" I do my work and know no shame; 

Star and woman and dream and crime 
Are but fuel to feed my flame." 



FORTUNE HUNTERS 

Lock our arms together, lad, and out into the road, 

The long road, the wood road, that leads unto the sea, 
For we've given Love the slip, and we're bound to take the 
ship 
For a bold land, a cold land, where the wind is blowing 
free. 

Look our last together, lad, on the hills of home, 
Schoolhouse and home house where we bided long, 

We've hit the trail for Valdes, Skagway, and Nome, 
And we've sold the old plantation for a song. 

Look you sharp about you, lad, the way is getting dark, 
Dim is the forest and dusk the way between; 

Do you mind the story of the traveler stiff and stark 
Who stumbled on the hut of Death amid the fir trees 
green ? 

Sing, lad, and swing, lad, along the woodland way, 
Fear is for the fellows who hanker for their lives, 

We have had our pinch of fun, and we have had our day. 
Now we take our fortunes for mistresses and wives. 

Get our kits together, lad, the ship is in the dock, 

The hawser's swinging loose and the windlass creaks 
and whines. 

It's now we feel beneath our feet the vessel reel and rock 
As we slowly leave behind us the misty rows of pines. 

108 



Steady, lad, steady, lad, choke the sorrow down, 

It's a bold heart and cold heart that wins out at the last, 
Never mind remembering those good kind eyes of brown. 

Leave them with the worn-out things encumbering the 
past. 
Gold, lad, gold, lad, that's the tune we hear 

Ripping through the shrouds and whistling from the 
spars; 
We have our faces set hard against the cold and wet. 

Fronted for the frozen North, and underneath its sta rs. 



FAME AND THE POET 

He lay in a hammock and read and dreamed, 

And Fame came by. 
His eyes were closed, or so it seemed, 

I know not, I. 

So Fame flew on, nor paused to look, 

As she went by. 
At the young pale man and his folded book. 

No more would I. 

So he sat and dreamed till the stars came out 

And bats flew by. 
But I went up town where the people shout. 

Why should not I ? 

And the young man slept nor heard the same 

As the hours rolled by. 
And they found him there when the morning 
came, — 

I wondered, I. 

i09 



Died of dreaming, the neighbors said, 

As it went by, 
Useless he lived, he is better dead, 

They thought and I. 

A quiet place of dream and book 

Till Fame came by 
And made her abode in the selfsame nook, 

I wondered, I. 

Ever and ever the summers pass. 

And Fame sits by, 
Gazing calmly o'er tree and grass, 

I wonder, I. 

Does he know now, the young pale man. 

That Fame sits by ? 
Or is he still dreaming as he began ? 

I know not, I. 



A PROPHET 

The young man stood in the marketplace, 
The peasants gathered about his feet, 

They were dusty and ragged, devoid of grace, 
And soiled with the savor of shop and street; 

Their shoulders were humped, and their chests 
were thin, 

Their brows drawn close with the lust for gain — 
Marked with famine and branded with sin, 

Bent with labor and seamed with pain: 

110 



But the youth stood up in the marketplace, 

And he looked on the crowd with a cheerful 
smile, 

There was trust and hope and love in his face. 
As he raised his voice and spake the while: 

"Come unto me, ye weary folk. 
Ye men that labor, ye women that bear, 

Light is my burden and easy my yoke. 
And the pay at the last is honest and fair; 

"Ye have served the devil for many a day. 

Ye have toiled for money and place and fame — 

Ye have served the devil and taken his pay, 
And the end of it all was sorrow and shame. 

" Come unto me, ye serfs of sin, 

I have bought you all at a precious rate; 

There is room for many to enter in 

By the narrow way and the straitened gate; 

"For the kingdom I preach is a joyous gift, 

A Well of water, a hidden bread, 
And the truth of my gospel has power to lift 

The burden from every weary head. 

"Come unto me, ye ailing and weak. 

For mine is the grace that shall make you 
whole; 
My heart is lowly, my mind is meek, 

And ye shall find a rest for your soul; 

" For my kingdom is like to a woman who hid 
A cake of yeast in a measure of flour, 

And lo, when she came to lift the lid. 
The lump was all leavened by secret power. 

Ill 



So the young man stood in the marketplace 
(Odd would it seem were he here to-day.) 

With a heavenly light on his grave, sweet face. 
(Should he call to me now, what would I say ?) 



112 



FOREST LOVE 

I thought I knew the meaning of the morning-glory's cup, 
I thought I knew the wonder when the day wakes up, 
But never was the reverence and miracle so plain 
As this morning when my sweetheart came awalking up 
the lane. 

Sweetheart, sweetheart, don't you hear the news ? 
The deep woods are calling us, pray do not refuse; 
Together let us Wander on with footsteps slow 
Far into the forest where the green things groW. 

I thought I knew the worthiness and pith of womanhood, 

How part of it is selfish and part is very good, 

How part of it is coarse as weeds and part is fine and 

clean. 
But I only found the secret within the forest green. 

Sweetheart, sweetheart, we weren't made for toil, 
We were made to grow and bloom in a sheltered soil; 
With a faint sun over us and moss about our feet, 
Like the forest violets, delicate and sweet. 

I thought I knew how woman's lips and woman's kisses 

taste, 
How love spills out the soul of man and runs his life to 

waste, 
How one may chase, and one may flee, but all are caught 

at last, 
But I only knew for certain within the forest vast. 



113 



Sweetheart, sweetheart, we will take to-day, 
Fill it to the brim with joy — night will find us gray; 
We will love as none have loved since the world began, 
When the mother-maiden first gave herself to man. 

I thought I knew how white and soft and warm a girl 

could be, 
And how her fingers slim and cool could draw the heart 

of me; 
But when my sweetheart held me close and would not let 

me go, 
I knew the meaning of the woods — I could not help but 

know. 

Sweetheait, sweetheart, the forest is alive. 

Love is at the heart of things, it is vain to strive; 

i.wve is at the heart of things and bound to have his 

way — 
Kiss me quickly then, sweetheart, night will find us 

gray! 



I HEARD A CRY IN THE MORNING 

1 neard a cry in the morning, 

I saw a little light; 
I heard a cry in the morning 

When the day was turning bright; 

It was the good Lord Jesus 
A-calling you and me — 

No wonder the bright morning 
Broke over land and sea! 



114 



THE DEATHLESS URGE 

Lately I've been hankering for something new and 

strange, 
Something sweeter than I know, and just beyond my 

range; 
I am tired of the levels, tired of the even pace, 
I want to see some woman who will set my blood a-race. 

Just a look of love and danger, just a flash of shoulders 

white. 
Just a glance of wanton madness as she fades into the 

night, 
And I'll know a prize is posted I must win at any cost, 
When the old sex-hunger wakens and this world is nobly 

lost. 

Lately I've been grutching, snapping over all my daily 

bread, — 
Little duties, slothful pleasures, sleeping in or out of bed, 
Just to get the task completed, bring the languid day 

around 
With its stupid jokes and prayers barely lifted from the 

ground. 

I can hear her voice a-calling far across the windy steep, 
I must up and follow, follow, — leave the patient wife 

asleep — 
Out across the sagebrush desert, up the peaks of endless 

snow, 
With a woman's shoulders flashing fainter, bolder, as I go. 

Lately I've been somehow thinking that the best is yet 

before. 
All the sorry past has garnered waiting in a heaped-up 

store; 

115 



All the passion, all the pleasure, I have missed or mis- 
applied 

Waiting somewhere with its wonder in the white form of 
my bride. 

I shall eat and drink and sate me to the full on that clear 

day, 
And the warm embrace of beauty all my pains shall 

overpay; 
I shall sit at princes' tables mid the ladies gay and fond, 
I shall loiter in their chambers, an eternal vagabond. 



A PORTRAIT 

Friend, you ask me to describe her. 

In a page or two to tell 
Outer feature, inner fibre 

Of this girl I love so well; 

What a cheek and what a color, 
What a curve of lip or hand. 

You could see — the rest are duller 
You alone could understand. 

Fancy Laura, Beatrice, 
Mona Lisa, and the rest, — 

Any painter's, poet's darling 
When his art was at its best; 

Take his best and his most human, 
Quick you let the picture fall. 

See, my arm about this woman, 
Sweeter, sweeter than them all! 

116 



How could brush or pen depict her ? 

Is a woman just to see ? 
B ut the perfume and the nectar 

Is the flower to a bee. 

Friend, their art can paint the summer, 
Bee and bird and rose and vine. 

But the sweetness and the fragrance 
And the melody are mine. 



A PRAYER 

God, for the passions mild and meek 

I do not ask; 
Give me a hard heart and a brazen cheek 

To meet my task. 

For love and gentleness and contrite tears 

I do not pine; 
But a bold front to face the coming years 

Be wholly mine. 

God, for forgiveness and a spirit pure 

I do not cry; 
Just give me manliness to still endure 

Until I die. 

Not the cheap victory of a blood-bought crown 

My soul would crave; 
But steadfastly to keep, though beaten down, 

A spirit brave. 

117 



LOVE AND YOUTH 

Oh, the young heart, the boy's heart, ever on the quest, 
Going up and down his world and counting it a jest, 
Going up and down his world and seeking for a mate. 
Brown eyes or blue eyes, be it soon or late. 
Brown eyes or blue eyes — lips are always red. 
And lips are made for kissing when the good day's sped. 

Oh, the young heart, the girl's heart, masterless and free, 
Going up and down her world the pleasant things to see; 
Going up and down her world, and quite contented so, 
Where the roses bend about her and the sweet peas grow. 
Roses and sweet peas touch her cheeks and lips — 
Fragrance and freshness to her finger tips. 

Springtime and ringtime, so the singers say. 

All the world's a-wooing through all a summer's day. 

All the world's a-wooing and my boy has found his quest, 

And my girl is all a-flutter for the strange new guest. 

And brown eyes falter and cheeks grow red. 

And the lips get used to kissing ere the long day's sped. 

Oh, the young years, the lost years, vain our songs dis- 
close! 
The summer brings her pleasant things, the sweet pea and 

the rose. 
The summer brings her pleasant things, but brings no 

more to me 
The questing boy I was and the girl you used to be. 
With the heart's grave wonder and the cheeks' brave red 
And the young, young kisses while the good day sped. 



118 



BROTHERS 

We are brothers; let us be 
Tolerant and just and free — 
Giving, taking, each with each, 
Freest manner, thought, and speech. 

All the joy of friendship lies 
In a thousand differences; 
Sweetest wisdom I have got 
From my friends the saint and sot. 

For the Providence that sent 
Office to the president, 
On the self-same day for one 
A four-year prison term begun. 

We should not be squeamish who 
All too sudden pass from view — 
Hardly reach the summit when 
To the foot we go again. 

We are brothers; let us not 
Praise the saint, abhor the sot; 
God alone can tell which one 
Gains the day when all is done. 



WINTER'S HERE, NEARLY 

Winter's here, nearly; 
The clouds are scudding down the sky. 
Brown shoals of leaves go swirling by. 
The honking mallards southward fly, 

As tokens merely. 

119 



Winter's here, nearly; 
Noses are blue and cheeks are red, 
There's frost upon the pine tree's head, 
The sumach by the river's bed 

Is flaming clearly. 

Winter's here, nearly; 
The table's drawn, the log's ablaze, 
The nights are long and short the days. 
My pipe has made the room ahaze, 

I love it dearly. 

Winter's here, nearly; 
And you are in the chimney nook 
Devouring some new-fangled book 
Wherein 'tis now a shame to look, 

I think sincerely. 

Winter's here, nearly; 
The time when one should use to glance 
Through some long-drawn, antique romance 
In which bold knights and ladies prance 

With action cheerly. 

Winter's here, nearly; 
When one before the fire should read 
Some Nonnes Tale or Friar's screed, 
Wherein young innocents do bleed 

Or bellow merely. 

Winter's here, nearly; 
And you, you rogue, are sitting there 
With firelight on your face and hair — 
There's something in your verj/ air 

Afi^ects me queerly. 

120 



Winter's here, nearly; 
You know I cannot read when you 
Wear such a tantalizing hue 
Of warmth and color — 'tis a view 

Of summer clearly. 



Ul 



JANE AND I 

It's Jane and I that love to go together, 
It's Jane and I against the world, I'll swear; 

We do not mind, we two, the road or weather, 
With her the road is smooth, the weather fair; 

For do you know, we are old-fashioned lovers, 
Mine host will never find us hard to please. 

For all we ask's a table and two covers, 

A pot of wine, a loaf of bread, some cheese. 

And — well, good waiter, you may leave us, 
What else we want we can ourselves devise — 

An empty belly's the last thing to grieve us. 
We find good fare in one another's eyes. 

Ah, to be young and full of springtime ardor. 
To have an appetite like Jane's and mine. 

To give no heed what's in the buttery larder. 
Absorbed in comfits rather more divine — 

The taste of kisses, say, the subtle savor 
One finds in youth upon a maiden's lips; 

The wild, entrancing, ne'er forgotten flavor 
When love drinks life in short, perfervid sips! 

So, good mine host, bring on your frugal diet; 

We're easily contented, Jane and I, 
We mainly ask a private room and quiet. 

With a good fire to toast our ankles by; 



122 



A quiet room, a well-trimmed lamp, two glasses, 
Two chairs, or rather, look you, only one; 

You'd never dream how quick an evening passes, 
When Jane and I go travelling for fun! 

We lift our tumblers, but forget to drain 'em. 
We cut the cards, but will not stop to play; 

We lose ourselves in love's divine arcanum, 
Far from the bustle of the common day. 

It's Jane and I that love to go a-rambling. 
It's Jane and I that love a cozy inn; 

We leave the others to their sordid scrambling. 
We have the prize they work so hard to win; 

We have the prize — our feet are on the fender. 
We hear the winds of autumn whistle by, 

We clink our cups with glances fond and tender — 
No wonder people envy Jane and I. 

THE DEAD SENATOR 

Wise is the voice of their counsel, the sound of their sing- 
ing dear. 
And the organist plays with my heart as a boy with his 
pipes may play. 
But my ears are stuffed with a music which none but my- 
self may hear. 
And my eyes are filled with the light of a long dead day. 

The people come in a-tiptoe and rustle among the pews, 
They whisper one to another and crane curious necks 
to see, 
They pull them religious long faces as people at funerals 
use, 
And each in his turn takes a quick frightened half- 
glance at me, 

123 



His mistress, his madam — the man lying there mid the 
lilies so pure, 
The man with the clean waj: record and the clean peace 
record, too; 
Who stood by his guns in both, nor ever minded the lure 
Of fear or of gold, when there was a duty to do. 

His family has come in. They are decently clothed in 
black. 
The widow snuffles, I fancy, behind that long thick 
veil; 
They are seated quite near me, alas! I should have gone 
further back; 
It must hurt just now to think how a husband was frail. 

Butj^God! did I ever hold back in the dead man's life ? 
What has she given I have not given ten times more ? 
Yet she is the noble woman in his youth that he took to 
wife. 
While I am the woman that Bible would call his 
"whore"! 

Never mind, I say to myself, this is no time for com- 
plaint; 
His lips are silent forever, let yours be silent too; 
If they make him a martyr to public business, a soldier- 
saint. 
That is what they are paid for — what is it then to you ? 

You could tell them stories, no doubt; you could whisper 
tales 
Not quite so pretty as those the preacher is trying to 
tell: 
You could make these pious ladies turn crimson behind 
their veils 
For this publicist paramount, honored and loved so 
well. 

124 



But what is the use of vengeance when God is so close to 
us all ? 
What is the use of girding when all are so palpably 
weak ? 
For I verily think without Him neither sparrow nor 
woman may fall; 
He abasest the proud at the last and crownest the meek. 

Not that I ever was humble; I held my head high; 

I had rather have been his mistress than another man's 
wedded wife! 
I loved him, I loved him, I say, though I do not sit and 
cry; 
I shall love him forever and ever, till the fires burn out 
of my life. 

Oh, they think I am bold to come; they would put me 
out if they dared — 
A common woman like me to sit in their sacred pews! 
I could bid them remember Christ and the Magdalen if I 
cared — 
But what were the use; my poor dead lover, what were 
the use ? 

They carry him out, his comrades, the Grand Army boys, 
old and few; 
The audience rises en masse to honor their soldier dead, 
Wrapped in the old brave banner, the folds of the red, 
white, and blue, 
While I remain sitting, dry-eyed, and think of the days 
that have fled. 



125 



NICODEMUS 

Jesus of Nazareth, 

They told me you were dead — 
You, who are lord of life and death, 

Killed on the cross, they said. 

I laughed the folk to scorn! 

They said — what could they say ? 
This rabbi, we suppose, was born ? 

Well, he is dead to-day! 

I laughed — who would not laugh ? 

Jesus of Nazareth 
Sealed in a hillside cenotaph, 

A bondservant of death! 

Lord, lord, it is not so ? 

Surely you are most strong; 
No granite can resist your blow. 

Or hold your body long! 



Master, I seem to see 

Once more your long-loved face — 
A tender light that covers me, 

And lightens up the place. 

They told me — let them tell! — 

It is the hour to sup; 
Dear guest, good master, it were well 

To bless the bread and cup. 

126 



Your face, so kind, is marred! 

Your hand, dear God, your hand! 
What, has the haughty Roman dared 

The Lion of our land ? 

My eyes are bleared, the vision shifts; 

Here is no mystic table set — 
And see, the somber sunset drifts 

Sad shadows over Olivet! 

It is enough; no more 

Beneath the olive boughs 
Shall he and I in peace explore 

The wonders of his house; 

No more beside the sea 

Shall he and I make cheer — 

Ah, but the noblest part of me 
Is buried in that bier! 

Dear God, it cannot be! — 

Till memory grow dim 
Some few of us will joy that we 

Once ate and drank with Him; 

Some few of us will say, 

There was a rabbi just 
Whom we have seen on such a day 

Raise dead folk from the dust; 

A youth of Galilee, 

A carpenter, in truth, 
Yet in our long, proud history 

Was never such a youth. 



127 



It is enough to say, 

I, Nicodemus old, 
Have sometime known the living Way 

Of whom our prophets told; 

Ate, drank, conversed, and slept 
With this amazing man — 

Think you that Nicodemus wept 
Over a charlatan ? 

It is enough; and I 

Have fought for what I saw; 
I loved this man of mystery 

As I have loved the law; 

I have no settled creed. 

No glib retort to make; 
I know of one so pure of deed 

As to suffer for my sake; 

I know of one whose speech 
Was quiet and assured — 

The other rabbis only teach — 
This is my God and Lord! 



Jesus of Nazareth, 

They told me you were dead — 
What do the people mean by death ? 

This I would ask instead. 



128 



WINTER 

Dead leaves that were beautiful once, 
High hopes that died out in a year, 

Never vi^ill waken new suns 
To sunlight and cheer; 

Kind leaves that sheltered the birds 
Trampled and torn from the stem; 

Where are the naked and pitiful words 
Wherewith to pity them 



MY DAYS 

Each morning brings its mystery. 
Each noon its wonted hour of rest. 

Each evening rounds the history 
Of a calm day I love the best 
With primrose painting of its we««-- 

Z do not ask for tragical 

Denouements to our little plots, 

But winds and waters magical — 
Green matted woods and mossy grots. 
Home of the good for-get-me-nots. | 

Some quiet bit of God's creation 

Where the stern voice of cities cease, 

Out of the paths of all temptation 
Save that to kindliness and peace, 
The wayworn spirit's glad release. 

129 



These tranquil days are in thy hand, 
These holy days so cool and sweet; 

Dear Lord, I cannot understand 
What better heaven for man is meet 
Than these green things about my feet, 

Than these green things and this clear sky 
And waters pulsing up the beach, 

And one dear woman standing by 
Whose fingers for my fingers reach 
With sympathy more dear than speech. 

A little day of honest labor, 

A little hour of rest at noon, 
A little gossip with a neighbor, 

A listening to an old, old tune — 

A little day gone all too soon. 



SONG 

Let the bee tell the rose of her sweetness, 

The wild rose whisper the bee, 
Of our joy and its over-completeness, 

Tell not me. 

Let the sea make his moan to the shingle, 

The shingle respond to the sea, 
Of our sighs and our whispers that mingle, 

Tell not me. 

Let the pine to her dark mountain mutter, 
The mountain complain to the tree, 

But the fear that your fond heart would utter, 
Tell not me. 



130 



JESUS AND NATHAN 

Nathan: Friendly Jesus, honest neighbor, 

Leave thy bench this pleasant morning: 
Come a-walking in the country. 
Let us take a trip together, 

Jesus: Ah, these yokes that I must fashion 
For the patient necks of oxen! 
Would that I might make them easy, 
Would that I might bear their burden! 

Nathan: Why, what mean you, neighbor Jesus ? 
Would you bear the yoke of oxen. 
Take their weary loads upon you, 
Be a neighbor to dumb cattle ? 

Jesus: Nay, good Nathan, I was thinking 
Of another matter. Surely 
I will go a journey with you; 
Whither wend you, brother Nathan ? 

Nathan: I must visit cousin Andrew, 
Ruler of the church at Cana, 
On an errand for my mother; 
Oh, 'tis good not to be working! 

Jesus: Nathan, you're a lazy fellow. 
Always pleased to rest a little 
From the joyous trade of weaving, 
Always glad to stop and gossip. 

Nathan: You had best say nothing, Jesus! 

Where's the youth more prone to wander 
From his workbench in the village. 
Than yourself, most noble teacher ? 

131 



Jesus : Do you think I leave the village 

And my father's trade behind me 
When I wander in the desert ? 
Nay, I always take them with me. 

Nathan: What — but there, I will not argue; 
Since your visit to the Temple, 
You are always talking queerly 
Of your father Joseph's business. 

Jesus: Well, I will not argue either. 
It is far too bright a morning; 
See, the lilies do not argue. 
Yet who could be more convincing ? 

Nathan: All you like is birds and posies. 

Mountain views and clear sunrises; 
What I like is lots of people. 
Caravans or Roman legions. 

Jesus: Nay, I also love the people. 

High and low, the wise and simple. 
But my forest folk are kinder. 
And my field folk more believing. 

Nathan: Jesus, you have funny notions; 
If you were not brave and manly 
And an excellent good workman, 
I should think you rather childish. 

Jesus: Why ? Because I love these lilies 

And the wild bees buzzing o'er them ? 

Is it childish to be happy 

And praise God this pleasant morning 



132 



Nathan: Nay, of course not, brother Jesus, 

But you know that grown-up people 
Fill their days with fighting, trading, 
Making love or making money. 

Jesus: And you think me rather foolish 
Not to join them in their worry ? 
But my field folk do not labor. 
My small sparrows are not prudent. 

Nathan: Yea, but you are almost twenty, 
And the best youth in the village, 
Wisest, bravest, and most simple; 
Why don't you amount to something ? 

Jesus: Pray what mean you, brother Nathan ? 
By this same " amount to something" ? 
I was of the odd impression 
All God's works amount to something. 

Nathan: Why, just this, if you will have it. 
You are not a common mortal. 
You were made to be a ruler, 
Made for some tremendous business. 

Jesus: Do I look like Herod, Nathan ? 
Is my gait and manner regal. 
That you fancy me a ruler, 
"Made for some tremendous business"? 

Nathan: You know what I mean; I deem you 
Something better than a workman, 
Fit to be a son of David, 
Ruler of the holy people. 



133 



"Jesus: But we'have enough of rulers 

In these worthy Roman soldiers; 
What we need is servants, Nathan, 
Saviours, helpers, not avengers. 

Nathan: I might knov/ how you would take it; 
You have not the stern ambition 
Proper to the youthful Hebrew; 
You have no desire for freedom. 

Jesus: Be not wroth, good brother Nathan; 
I may not be such a weakling 
As you deem me in your anger; 
I may yet accomplish something. 

As for freedom, pray what would you ? 
Who is there so bound as Herod ? 
Who so fettered as the rich man, 
Anxious, troubled o'er his moneys ? 

You and I are free, good Nathan, 
When we mind our father's business. 
When we do our proper duties; 
How can any one be freer ? 

But and if we follow pleasure. 
If we thirst for fame and fortune. 
If we give way to our passions. 
How can we be free an instant ? 

Nor am I without ambition 
For my race and for my people; 
All my mind and thought is of them. 
All my sympathy is with them, 

134 



But I see each day more clearly 
That their foemen are within them, 
And their teachers are their tyrants, 
Their imaginations chain them. 

For suppose we slew King Herod, 
Drave the Roman from our borders, 
Would we also drive out passion — 
Lust and fear and hate and envy ? 

These, my brother, these enslave us. 
These have eaten up God's vineyard. 
Spoiled his pleasant plants and stricken 
All our land with desolation. 

Nathan: Likely you are right, friend Jesus; 
All I know is what the rabbis 
Teach in every street and meeting — 
Still, how would you change it, Jesus ? 

Jesus: I, good Nathan, cannot change it, 
Nay, nor can my heavenly Father; 
Each must be his own redeemer, 
Each must find his own salvation. 

Knock, I say, and doors will open. 
Ask, and answers will be given, 
Seek, and you will find the treasure; 
God can give the faithless nothing. 

After all, this is the secret 
Of my own glad self-possession, 
Of my freedom and contentment, 
Of my sweet and perfect wholeness; 

135 



I have found a well of water 
Ever springing up within me. 
Making glad the lonely places 
Like a river in the desert; 

I have found the bread of heaven 
And may never more be hungry, 
Tasted of the life immortal 
And am no more cold or naked. 

Nathan: Ho, I am not good at riddles, 

I make nothing of your answers; 
If you have important secrets, 
Prythee, Jesus, tell them plainly. 

Jesus: If I could — if you could bear it, 
I would give you such instruction 
As the eagles tell their nestlings, 
As the wild bees drone and murmur 

While upon their happy errands, 
As the mother croons her infant 
In the cool and pleasant twilight, — 
Very tender human stories. 

How that God is ever present 
In the circled earth and heavens. 
In the souls of all things living. 
In the hearts of His dear children; 

Ever present helping, healing. 
Seeking, sympathizing, saving, 
Binding up and manumitting 
Beast and bird and man and woman. 



136 



Everything is in His keeping, 
Not a fragment lost, forgotten; 
All things bound up in the bundle 
Of His noble providences, 

I would tell you how that fountain 
Of immortal life within me 
Is His own sweet will within me 
Working out its own perfection; 

How that will is in all people. 
Priest and Pharisee and peasant. 
Working out its own perfection — 
Only people do not know it. 

Ah, had they but eyes for seeing, 
Ears for hearing, hearts for feeling. 
How might they leave off their sickness. 
Turn unto the Lord and heal them; 

How might they turn inward seeking 
Service with this hidden Helper, 
• And therein find truest freedom 
And surcease from all their sorrow! 

Nathan: Very likely, neighbor Jesus; 
I have oftentimes imagined 
Something of the sort — but look you, 
We have almost come to Cana. 

You should visit cousin Andrew, 
Ruler of the church, he'd tell you 
All about these subtle matters — 
Mother says he has seen visions. 

137 



Anyhow, I like to hear you 
Chatter on about your " secret," 
And about your "father's business," 
For it makes the walk more easy. 

See that strapping soldier, Jesus! 
Don't he strut along superbly ? 
And those slaves — I would I had them, 
I would set them all to weaving. 

Jesus: And I also would I had them — 
Slave and soldier, all the people, 
I would set them free 

Nathan: Good Jesus, 

Aren't you growing tired of talking ? 
It behooves young men like we are 
To be practical and timely, 
And leave off such mystic moonshine. 

"Jesus: Perhaps you are right, dear Nathan. 



O LOVE, IT IS NOT MUCH TO SAY 

love, it is not much to say, 

1 love but you by yea and nay, 
And I must love you so alway. 

It is not much to say, but He 
Which weigheth words in verity 
Alone knows it the truth to be. 

It is not much to say, but all 
Meanings of life upon this ball 
To me within its compass fall. 



138 



Not much to say, O golden one, 
But you are health and life and sun 
To one poor soul till day be done. 



OLD PIERRE AND LISETTE 

It's gettin' kinder cold, Lisette, 

An' dark — poke up that pesky fire, 
An' see the storm door's closely shet, 
An' bring your chair up leetle nigher — 
I ain't quite through abossin' yet, 
Lisette. 

Now set down quietlike, Lisette; 

Jest let your hand lay on my knee 
As if it didn't make you fret 
To think of havin' married me, 
An old, sick man, but not in debt! 

Lisette. 

You understand it now, Lisette; 

I brought your pretty lover low, 
I hated him when first we met 

An' knew I'd never have a show 
With his red cheeks and head well set, 

Lisette. 

He could not help himself, Lisette; 

They took him with them to the jail. 
An' your poor father died in debt 

To me — I had you without fail; 
You came, although with eyelids wet, 

Lisette. 

139 



Three years ago to-night, Lisette! 

Ah, but the memory is sweet! 
With your soft body made to pet 

From frightened face to flinching feet, 
You came — I had you in my net, 

Lisette. 

Oh, I was cruel then, Lisette; 

I hated him an' longed for you; 
And still I hate him, still I fret 

Athinking of the things he'll do 
When he has what I could not get, 

Your heart, Lisette. 

It's gettin' kinder cold, Lisette, 
Stir up the fire and light a light. 

An' see my toddy's bein' het — 
Seems if you never get things right. 

You do not care, you do forget, 
Lisette ! 

He got a three years' term, Lisette, 
That red-cheeked lover, strong and slim; 

I wonder, has he got out yet. 
If so, what has become of him ? 

God help me when he claims his debt, 
Lisette! 



NOT AN APOLOGY 

So; I have ate and drank and slept 

Some thirty years and five, 
And through it all, thank God, I've kept 

My soul alive. 

140 



The rest have got on better, say ? 

Have gained a name and a pelf? 
Well let them cackle, anyway, 

I have myself! 

I still retain the old glad sense 

Of fellowship unseen 
Whereon in days of innocence 

I used to lean. 

The selfsame faith I still enjoy 

Whereby I knocked at hidden doors 

And found great treasure as a boy 
About my chores. 

Say I am poor in this world's goods, 
And friendless to a large extent. 

And tossed about by fortune's moods 
I am content. 

The rest have got them fame and gold, 
They fancy I am rather slack, 

And yet for all the wealth they hold 
I'd not gigg back. 

To be a "man of influence " 
A noisy, public busybody. 

It strikes me — this in confidence — 
As rather shoddy. 

And just to live for money's sake — 
Putting the cart before the horse — 

Toiling and moiling till you break, 
Is even worse. 

141 



So, thankfully I take my seat 

Somewhere, I judge, about the middle, 
And sit me down with joy to eat 

And hear the fiddle. 

I'm halfway up life's shaky ladder, 

My itch for climbing long is past; 
Ah, first glad step! — I shall be gladder 

To reach the last. 

For life's an equilibrium 

Of joy and pain, desire and dread, 
And surely keep's one guessing some 

Until one's dead. 

And then perchance — who knows ? Does 
God ? — 

It may continue as chaotic, 
And that would be extremely odd 

And idiotic! 



THE CALL OF THE GIRL 

'•■ mell of the good brown earth and call of the woods, 
Voice of the sea in its eminent solitudes. 
Cry of the city's clamoring multitudes, 

Waken me not nor weaken me for my race; 
I am immune to all but one fugitive face, — 
One little call o'er the endless fathoms of space. 

One little face with the pallor of twilight snows, 
With lips of a scarlet filched from the heart of the rose. 
And the wondering quiet which only the forest knows. 

142 I 



One little whisper summons me, summons me still, 
Stronger than reason, religion, or masculine will, — 
How shall I keep my heart and the summons fulfill ? 

The good call of labor, the voice of an insistent art, 

How they keep tugging and trying the strings of my heart! 

May I not bid that girl's face, that girl's whisper depart ? 

Ever the voice comes resurgent with hope and with pain, 
Ever I see that one fugitive face flash again; 
Shall I resist when I know all resistance is vain ? 

Long ere the world was, the compact was made and 

assigned; 
I must fulfill all the passion and part of my kind, — 
Give myself up to the fears and the pleasures that bind. 

girl, with the begging face and the voice that cries, 
Torture me not with your outworn mimicries; 
Love is the master of makeshifts and withering lies. 

1 would be upright and face all my foes like a man. 
Finish with honor the story that boyhood began, 
Jolly with death as only a vagabond can. 

I see you and hear you, the past is a twicetold tale, 
The future contracts to the face of a maiden pale. 
The hopes of my life and my art go suddenly stale. 

Smell of the good brown earth and call of the sea 

Waken no fibre of home-sweet memory. 

Nothing accounts but the face and the voice of thee. 



143 



CHRISTMAS 

God rest you merry, sweetheart mine, 
And give you love and light, 

Amid the fire and candle shine 
This holy Christmas night. 

Give you the sweet and solemn joy 

Of angels crooning o'er 
The cradle of the Virgin's boy 

That holy night of yore. 

Dear wife and mother marvelous, 
God rest you merry, heart, 

Who for the joy and hope of us 
Hast tasted Mary's smart. 

No spicery have I to bring, 

No treasure for the boy, 
But oh, this loosened heart will sing 

For peace and holy joy. 

And God himself may not forget 
How she was once His spouse. 

And every woman living yet 
A maiden of His house. 

God rest you merry, wife of mine, 

We little think or dream 
How nigh we are to the divine, 

How purer than we seem. 

'Tis such another Christmas night, 
Another mother with her child, 

Another glimpse of heaven's light 
And glory undefiled. 

144 



THE SWEET OF LIFE 

The sweet of life is something near, 
A mother's kiss, a baby's tear, 
A little liberty from fear. 

The sweet of life is something deep, 
The quiet joy of those who reap 
Huge garners in the fields of sleep. 

The sweet of life is something small, 

A resting by a wayside wall 

With God's good sunshine over all. 

The sweet of life is found within, 
A mood that martyrs may not win. 
Good cheer in righteousness or sin. 

The sweet of life is something fair, 
The folded hands, the lifted prayer, 
The woman and her praise of hair. 

The sweet of life is something good, 
A friend's face in the multitude, 
A love that is both light and food. 

The sweet of life is something fine. 
Warm, human, edged with the divine, 
A taste of old, long-buried wine. 

The sweet of life is just this hour. 
This thought arrested in full flower, 
This sense of boundless peace and power. 

The sweet of life is what ? you say, 
A flash of kindness on the way 
Of folk who were not yesterday. 

145 



Nay, love, the sweet of life is one 
Clear vision of the Father's Son, 
The happy message well begun. 



IN 1865 

Great heart, strong heart, whither off to-day ? 

I go to join my regiment, the gallant lads in blue. 
Great heart, strong heart, for a moment stay, 

A woman's lips, a woman's heart, are waiting here for 
you. 

Young heart, sweet heart, the drums are calling me, 
The grandest army in the world is on its greatest 
march, 
And I must follow Sherman from Atlanta to the sea, 
Through cornfields and cotton fields, groves of pine 
and larch. 

Great heart, strong heart, turn you to the west, 

However far you march with the gallant lads in blue, 

Know there is a welcome waiting and a woman's breast. 
And the tears she cannot check a-falling still for you. 

Young heart, sweet heart, spring has come again. 
Again and yet again the summer comes and goes, 

But the cornfields can't discover nor the cotton fields 
explain 
Why the lover lags behind the springtide and its rose. 

Great heart, strong heart, tramping mid the stars. 
Do you hear the drums of God his armies mobilize ? 

Or do you hear a woman's heart beating at the bars 
And waiting for the rites of death her love to solemnize ? 

146 



A SAINT 

A man of God — a queer, lone cuss, 

Who walked the streets with vacant smile, 

Vacant at least it seemed to us. 

Though glimpsing heaven all the while; 

Bent was his back with many years 
And undue labor in his youth, 

Seamed were his cheeks with long-dried tears 
A rather shabby saint, in truth. 

Such as he was, he'd often say 

In class meetings, 'twas due to grace — 

A creature of quite common clay. 
With something winning in its face, 

A something, just that waiting look 

Of keen awareness as of one 
Who pores upon a gospel book 

With pause for wonder ere 'tis done. 

This duffer with his childlike pose, 
.Old-fashioned, simple, good, and quaint. 

In my mind's eye forever goes 
The proper figure of a saint. 

A man of God, so truly thus 

As not to be his own at all, 
Which rather puzzled some of us 

Who scorn a man devoid of gall; 

But he would meekly grin and bear 

Most any kind of old abuse, 
Quite satisfied to take his share, 

As worthy of the Master's use. 

147 



A good old soul! His friends long dead, 
He lived a sort of public charge — 

Though who would grudge him board or bed 
Whose heart was many fortunes large ? 

So he was kept from day to day 

By neighbors he called Providence, 

Until, grown weary of the way. 
His faring soul departed hence. 

I hardly know what it could be 

Endeared us to this queer old cuss, 

Or why about his coffin we 
Must sniffle hugely, all of us. 



MORNING IN AUTUMN 

Did you hear the brown quail piping all along the level 

grass ? 
Did you see the forest changing where the long dark 

shadows pass ? 
There's a hint of autumn lying where most any one can 

see 
In the little flecks of sunshine fallen from the maple tree; 
There's a gentle hint of autumn, just a stir among the 

fern, 
lust that sober tinge of sadness when the year is on the 

turn, 
When the wild blackberry brambles turn a surer, purer 

brown. 
And the little flecks of sunshine patter, patter, patter 

down. 

148 



Did you hear the blackbird fluting for you when you first 

got up ? 
Did you see the scarlet runner break and spill his fragile 

cup ? 
Did you hear the autumn call you with insistent bugle 

tone 
To come wandering and squandering the morning all 

alone, 
To come wandering and squandering the golden, sun- 
bright days 
With a little song of gladness and a little prayer of praise, 
When the year comes up in splendor to receive her 

beauty's crown, 
And the little flecks of sunshine patter, patter, patter 

down ? 

Was there some one spoke this morning as I pushed aside 

the door 
And the fragrance and the fortune of the daybreak woke 

once more ? 
There were pipings, drummings, thrummings, as I wan- 
dered through the wood. 
And I knew the friendly forest was preparing something 

good; 
But I never guessed the rapture till I reached the summit 

pine 
And saw all the trees behind me softly gather into line, 
With their banners olden, golden, flaming from their 

spear points high, 
And the flushing, blushing faces of the fronds about to die; 
And they flung a glory at me like the sunset o'er a town, 
While the golden flecks of sunshine pattered, pattered, 

pattered down. 

Was there something that apprised me from the yellow, 
dusty grass 

149 



Of a wondrous apparition that should shortly come to 

pass ? 
Insect voices shrilling, thrilling from the roadside all the 

way 
Bade me loiter, listen, listen what the grasshopper could 

say — 
How all the living things were leaving with a most tri- 
umphal shout. 
And the woods were on their mettle when the year was 

going out : 
Every fine fugacious green thing wore a glory and a 

crown 
While the little flecks of sunshine pattered, pattered, 

pattered down. 

Oh, the last days, fast days, feast days, ere the warm 
woods fall asleep, 

And the winds of winter rock them, lock them into slum- 
ber deep! 

There are carrolings and communings and presagings 
around, 

They fall upon you from above and snare you from the 
ground; 

You can only lie and listen, you can ouly pause and look, 

Shaking from the mountain summits, purling from the 
speckled brook; 

There are noises, voices, visions, trances, ecstasies of life. 

When the bustling year is over with its music and its 
strife. 

And the living things have mated, all have loved and re- 
produced. 

And there comes the gorgeous sunset when the silver cord 
is loosed. 

And the old things turn to gold things and the green 
things turn to brown, 

While the little flecks of sunshine patter, patter, patter 
down. 

ISO 



Sonnets 



THE ADORATION OF THE MADONNA 

LUCA BELLA RoBBIA 

Sweet Maiden-mother, lift thy downcast eyes, 

And Hft thine eyes from gazing on thy Son, 
The babe called Wonderful, who near thee lies 

Naked and smiling for his heart of fun 
And for the joy of thy dear face, a prize 

That he is never tired of looking on — 
Tender and tranquil, loving yet so wise, 

With tears held back and sorrows well begun. 

How dost thou worship this fat, rosy boy. 
Thy first-born and the first-born of an age, 

The flower of love and pure, unstained joy. 
The gift of faith and her unearned wage! 

Would Christ that I might worship worthily. 

Not unto him, sweet Mother, but to thee. 

TO THE SAME 

Sweet Maiden-mother; nay, I do not heed 

His soft young babyhood and round young face 
For looking on thee, clad in modest weed, 

A quiet figure of immortal grace 
That visitest this heart in utmost need 

And makest it a safe and holy place — 
The gate of heaven and house of God indeed. 

Lifting the veil of life a little space; 

For somewhere in the gift of motherhood 
Lies all the healing of the human race, 

Lies all the cleansing of its tainted blood. 
Lies all its ultimate reward and praise: 

Thou, Maiden-mother, bringest the world the key 

Unlocking light and immortality. 

153 



TO THE SAME 

Sweet Maiden-mother, how dost thou contain 

All meaning, all delight, all gifts and powers — 
Fair body and the all-absorbing brain. 

The seeds of life and pollen of all flowers, 
Sunsets and daysprings, snows and dews and rain, 

The cities with their huddled homes and towers, 
Each little ant-hill stuffed with joy and pain, — 

Yea, all this daily miracle of ours. 

And having thee, sweet Mother, have not we 
All things whereby the sons of men must live — 

Courage and faith and sweetest sanctity 
To raise their lives however fugitive. 

Into the realm where they would ever be. 

Sweet Maiden-mother, looking unto thee ? 



IS. 



AMNON AND TAMAR 

Amnon Speaketh 

When I rise up my thought is all of thee, 
Neither may I forget when I lie down, 
So doth thy body's beauty harrow me, 

Tamar, sister, lady of renown; 
Thy voice to me is as a dulcimer, 

Thy smell is as the woods of Lebanon, 
With all chief spices, frankincense and myrrh, 
Aloes and calamus and cinnamon; 

Thy stature like a palm tree straight and tall, 
Thy head upon thee like the luscious fruit, 

Thy breasts like towers upon a city wall. 

Thy cheeks like gardens where young roses shoot; 

Yea, my beloved, thou art very sweet 

From thy thick hair to slender, sandaled feet. 

Tamar Speaketh 

They brought me to his house in proud array, 

1 sate within a broidered palanquin, 

The king's own footmen marched before my way, 

His chamberlain rose up to let me in; 
There never was so glad and proud a maid 

As I that morning when the king his son 
Would have me make him cakes. How I obeyed 

With rapture, watching carefully each one. 

And then he bade the servants all depart. 

And called me to the place wherein he lay — 
Thou God, how beautiful! — forget, my heart, 
■ The crimson horror of that fatal day — 
How gaily I came to his house that morn. 
And how I left it shameful and forlorn! 
155 



Amnon Speaketh 

How art thou fair, my love, my sister-spouse; 

How hast thou ravished manhood from my breast; 
All day I sit and fast within my house, 

I mourn for thee all night and take no rest. 
Why wert thou born to slay me with thy love ? 

Why was I born to perish of desire ? 
Sweet maid, for pity of the pain thereof 

Grant me thy lips to quench my ceaseless fire. 

Oh, I am sick of love; I yearn for thee, 

Stay me with flagons, comfort me with wine; 

My heart is troubled like the restless sea, 
And like a stork I chatter and repine. 

My bed is wet with tears, I may not sleep; 

I drowse to dream of thee and wake to weep. 

Tamar Speaketh 

Oh, thou art beautiful, my prince; thy face 

Is worn with watching but thine eyes 
Flash with some unknown mystery of grace. 

Some torment sweet that I may not surmise; 
Thou lookest kindly on thy handmaiden; 

Wilt thou not eat, my brother ? Rise and eat; 
Behold I kneel like the king's chamberlain. 

The cakes are crisp and brown, the honey sweet. 

My heart goes out to thee, my sick brother, 

Would I could make thee well and strong again; 

Shall not I play upon my dulcimer, 
O my beloved, that old sweet refrain 

Telling how Isaac in the cool of eve 

Went forth in haste Rebecca to receive ? 



156 



Amnon Speaketh 

My love is as a table spread with sweets, 

Her laughter like a cup that runneth over, 
Her mouth is as the honey David eats 

When as the bees have hugged the thyme and 
clover, 
Her lips are as the red anemones 

And like the desert swarms I pine for them, 
Her voice is as the sound of litanies 

When priests go chanting through Jerusalem, 

Her tears are like — nay, Tamar, do not cry, — 
Her tears are like the precious balsam tree — 

The doors are shut and barred, thou canst not fly! — 
My love is as a bird, where shall she flee ? 

Ah, sister, hear me for my old love's sake. 

My life is in thy hands to save or take. 

Tamar Speaketh 

Thou wert my well beloved; I had set 

My heart upon thee when a little maid; 
I watched thee leap from tower and parapet 

And cried aloud for that I was afraid: 
I loved thee then, and love thee now; oh, wait. 

Thou art the king's son, ask me of the king; 
Be not so rash before it is too late; 

Think, Amnon, think, it is a horrid thing! 

Where shall I go when thou art through with me ? 

Where shall I hide — nay, brother, let me go! — 
I hate thee, how my soul abhorreth thee! 

Now by thy mother's womb, use me not so! 

O my beloved, how hast thou betrayed 
The lovingest poor woman God hath made! 

157 



Amnon Speaketh 

Last night I dreamed a dream upon my bed, 

And I was in the gardens of the king, 
And walked amid the roses white and red. 

When suddenly there came a withering 
Sirocco from the desert bare and black; 

And lo, the roses all at once grew pale, 
Their leaves began to shrivel and hang slack, 

Their buds to fall away, their scent to stale — 

Nay, Tamar, sister, it was but a dream, 
No desert dust may drive away thy charms. 

And yet — and yet — how terrified I seem! 
Come, take me once again into thine arms; 

My father's sin hath gat me on the hip, 

I shall go mad like him — thy lip, thy lip ! 

Tamar Speaketh 

The banner he spread over me was love, 

His bed beneath me was a scarlet shame. 
His eyes were like fierce arrows sharp and rough. 

He blew upon me like the desert flame; 
I withered in his heat, I saw strange things; 

My heart became a dead thing in my breast; 
Nay, brother, even yet remembrance stings 

My soul to madness — I forget the rest! 

my beloved, O my prince of men, 

Why didst thou cast me oflF as one abhorred ? 

1 was thy love, thy spouse, thy handmaiden, 

And thou didst bid me quickly go, my lord ? 
I could almost forgive the rest if thou 
Didst love me still, wouldst speak me kindly now. 

158 



Amnon Speaketh 

Ah, love, if love could live beyond desire, 

If temples were not built of common dust, * 
If THOU SHALT NOT was not as oil to fire, 

If beauty was not pander to base lust, 
Methinks that you and I together might 

Play out this game with something of a heart - 
But come, enough of this; be glad to-night. 

For know to-morrow morning we must part. 

My gust is gone; possession ended it 
For good and all: I have no joy in thee. 

The Lord our God hath caught me in His pit. 
The waters of His wrath go over me; 

For that I sinned and soiled the royal line. 

He makes me to abhor all things of thine. 

Tamar Speaketh 

O my beloved, turn again to me, 

The night is dark, I have no place to go; 
Until the day break and the shadows flee 

Away, be thou beside me, even so; 
Place thou thy head upon my knees and rest. 

With spikenard will I anoint thy brow; 
Come, pillow here thy face upon my breast, 

The kingliest of hero-lovers thou! 

Sleep, my beloved, until morning break. 
And pushing back thy locks I whisper low, 

"Arise, O my beloved, now awake. 
Let us into thy watered gardens go 

To watch the figtree flourish and to tell 

How the young grapes give forth a goodly smell." 

159 



Amnon Speaketh 

Ah, Tamar, sister, how were we beguiled ! 

Stand off, cling not to me, my heart is cold; 
Thou art an unclean thing, a house defiled, 

I may not keep thee now to have or hold. 
I am a wretched and o'erburdened wight; 

Go from me quickly, there hath been enough; 
I take no pleasure in thy beauty's sight, 

I am no more anhungered for thy love: 

Nay, but I hate thee, sister — hear thee, hate ! 

Through thee I have been tempted to foul crime 
Go quickly, ere I turn thee from my gate, 

I care not where, so thou dost go in time. 
It was thy face that brought me lo^, thine eyes; 
Thou hast destroyed me with thy witcheries. 

Tamar Speaketh 

They brought me to the house wherein he lay, 

I smiled to see Prince Amnon on his bed; 
But I walked forth alone at close of day, 

My garments rent and ashes on my head; 
Yea, when I came my gown was all of silk. 

Of divers colors wove in Tyrian looms. 
My brow was smooth, I wis, and white as milk, 

My cheeks were like a garden full of blooms: 

When I went forth my silken gown was torn, 
My brow was black with ashes from the hearth 

My cheeks had withered quickly since the morn. 
And sorrow Was poured out instead of mirth: 

O my beloved, wist ye not the shame 

Wherewith I went, the joy wherewith I came ? 

160 



I 

Greeting, good friendly world! I wish you well; 

Glad am I for your young folk and your old — 
All people that upon the earth do dwell, 

I greet them all, I have no mind to scold : 
Ye workmen whistling on the way to town. 

Ye housewives busy at your morning chores, 
Ye little children running up and down, 

Ye sick folk lying patiently indoors. 

Ye young and pretty women featly dressed, 
Ye bustling men of business, brisk and keen, 

Ye old gray men and w omen I love best, 

Whose palsied hands lay hold on the unseen, — 

All ye who labor and are sorely pressed. 

Give you good day, I pray Christ give you rest. 

II 

I look you in the eye; I take your hand; 

Stranger, I say, good welcome to this place; 
But first, I pray you, let me understand 

What lies behind your smug and smiling face : 
What do you want with me ? What have There 

To lure you from your business great or small ? 
Where do you come from ? Whither do you steer ? 

Have you the least excuse to come at all ? 

Are you a pious gabbing colporteur 

Coming to " help " me on my rugged way ? 

Or are you interested in " literature " ? 
Or are you "writing up" a soul for pay ? 

If you are one of these, do not feel sore, 

Kind stranger, if I show you to the door. 

161 



Ill 

I look you in the eye. You look right good. 

You have a very wise and wicked grin, 
That speaks a gay and undetermined mood 

Behind that sober brow and heavy chin. 
I think you rather like to sit and chafF, 

I think you like a stubborn argument 
That winds up, as it should, in a good laugh; 

I think you are the fellow heaven sent. 

Then welcome, stranger, welcome to my shack, 
Hang up your hat and sit down by the fire. 

Fill up your pipe, luxuriously lean back. 
And let us gossip to our hearts' desire; 

Yea, it is good to see your face, O friend. 

To hear your voice and watch your smoke ascend. 

IV 

Not many noble. Lord, not many great, 

Rich men nor princes in this place appear, 
But vagabonds and men of low estate, 

The potentates of thought foregather here; 
The cunning artisan in well-laid prose. 

The master mechanist in hammered rhyme, 
The husbandman of truth whose product grows 

By slow degrees the wonder of his time. 

These are thy sons, true yokefellows of art. 
Laborious, unassuming, and urbane; 

Divinely wise and humble men of heart. 
Whose lives, of all men's, are not lived in vain ; 

Like saints of God they go amid the din. 

Minding alone the voice and light within. 

162 



Come, said I to my soul, arouse thee up 

And get thee on thy journey ere night falls, 
Dally not in thy bed or o'er thy cup, 

Or making these same wanton madrigals; 
Before the sun hath drunk up all thy dews, 

Before thy wits do wither in the heat. 
Whilst still thou'rt young and lusty, full of juice, 

Like a well-ripened apple, sound and sweet; 

Pitch into life pell mell with dauntless heart. 
Fear not thy fate, but boldly cut the crust. 

Dig to the bottom, search out every part. 
Taste, handle, touch, nor let thy senses fust; 

Live to the full in body and in brain. 

Accentuate the power, ignore the pain. 

VI 

My little boy, whose brief years number four, 

And thou, mine eldest, v/ith thy summers ten. 
Small mental scientists, whose looks restore 

Health to my heavy heart and hope again; 
How do ye start each day in sunny mood, 

Facing your little foemen with a cheer, 
And come at night with souls still unsubdued 

To sleep so quietly beside us here; 

Taking life as a good and precious gift, 
Accepting all things with an open mind, 

Giving the troubles of this earth short shrift, 
Eager for joy, to disappointment blind; 

My weary days of failure and success 

Are each to you full founts of happiness. 

163 



VII 

Standing serene beneath a glad blue sky, 
In solitary peace I praise and say, 

Gallant Redeemer, Son of the Most High, 
Give you good morning to a glorious day! 
Come, let us walk a little in the way. 

Here be thy fields and here the growing corn. 
The medlark trilleth madly from his post, 

This is thy house and lot and this thy morn, 
This is thy dining-room, and thou the host, 
I am thy guest, O fair and holy Ghost! 

Listen, O God, to yonder happy bird, 

How boldly he doth sing what I would say; 

I wis thou understandest every word 
And joyest that his little heart is gay. 

VIII 

Not for success, as one who wins by chance 

An easy-going game with random friends, 
His best stroke only a haphazard glance 

Of witless forces unto purblind ends; 
But rather the success of one who goes 

By infinite slow stages, pace by pace. 
Or of the buried diamond that grows 

Milleniums ere it may show its face. 

Or of the Oriental craftsman leaving 
His work unfinished for his son to share, 

Glad if a century or more of weaving 
Shall bring it to perfection fit and fair: 

Not for the easy time but for the hard I ask, 

Content if thou wilt brace me to my task. 



164 



IX 

Complain not, sweetheart, oh, do not complain 

Because God holds us two a while apart; 
Vain is our life, our little loves are vain 

Unless we wait in humbleness of heart 
His bugles sounding up and down the years 

Bidding this soldier go, this woman stay. 
Ringing alarm to laughter and light tears — 

The music of the everlasting Yea. 

I know we two shall meet again at last. 
Come up in God and stand us face to face. 

And of the pitiful unhandsome past 

There shall remain no more the slightest trace, 

Except an added pathos in each kiss. 

Hinting defeat more dear than triumph is. 

X 

Lift up your mountain gates, O earth, and be 

Ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors; 
Awake, ye winds, and thou unquiet sea. 

Shout wnth a loud voice from thy thousand shores; 
Ye peoples of the earth, simple and great. 

Ye multitudes, make merry with a din, 
Take down the bars and raise the city gate. 

And let the King of glory enter in. 

Who is this King of glory .? Even this 
Poor devil of a drunkard standing there. 

Or yonder outcast selling her stale kiss. 
Paint on her cheeks, peroxide in her hair; 

Who is this King of glory ? Every child 

For whom Christ died, the clean for the defiled. 



165 



XI 

To be a master workman with these same 

Old well-worn, weather-beaten English words; 
To build a noble palace of fair fame 

From broken remnants and discarded sherds; 
To be a song-smith beating out a rhyme 

And fashioning a sonnet featously; 
To be a leader in the ranks of time, 

A captain risen from a low degree : 

These are not base ideals, yet and yet 
I strive for something better, even this 

Bold prize of joy my youth hath ever set. 
The very pinnacle of earthly bliss — 

To know that I have played my part and can 

Look boldly in the face of God or man. 

XII 

"The readiness is all." Ye thieves of fame. 

Had we but this one sentence to recall. 
It were enough to fix a poet's name 

At the top notch — "the readiness is all." 
In every accident of life or death 

To stand foursquare, outfacing adverse fate, 
With quiet pulse and unobstructed breath. 

As one to whom naught may be soon or late: 

This is to be a man after God's heart. 
Before whom even calumny is dumb, 

A patient actor waiting for his part. 

Who saith, like Christ, " My time is not yet come; 

A man who acts or waits with equal joy. 

To whom this huge world is a painted toy. 

166 



XIII 

Religion is for those who know not God, 

Faith is for folk who have forgot to see, 
The docile jackass needeth not the rod. 

The good and faithful bondslave goeth free; 
What hath a man to do with hope or fear ? 

His only safety is in honest work, 
And be he damned of God or held most dear. 

His business is to do, and not to shirk. 

What time hath he for feasting or for prayer, 
For wizard mongering or telling beads ? 

His day is filled, there is no jot to spare 
For idle speculation or vain needs; 

He doth his stint, happy and unafraid. 

What more doth God at His almighty trade ? 

XIV 

An old gray woman, withered cheeks and brows, 

Sharp eyes and voice untuned and petulant, 
Goes bustling up and down a gray old house, 

Scolding and sneering like a termagant; 
"The dresser's thick with dust, the rug awry, 

The lamps give forth an odor, and the sun 
Beats on the parlor floor unhindered. Why, 

In my good times such things were never done." 

So will she rant and scold. Her son's wife hears. 
But says no word. I'll tell you why. One day 

She saw this gray old woman all in tears 

Take something from a trunk long stored awa}' 

And kiss it fondly as young lovers do — 

The faded picture of a boy in blue. 

167 



XV 

1 here at rlie a> indow of her unclean crib 

A little dr:^b sits \a siting, all the day, 
/And ever srnilcs with invitation glib: 

"Come in, sweetheart; come quickly in, I pray. 
And still the youths and old men loiter by 

With leer and flavored jest and look askance, 
And still she follows them with baleful eye, 

All hell and hatred in her hurtling glance, 

Yet meets the next man with the same grimace 
Of feigned desire and wheedling words of love, 

Still changing all the day her mobile face 
As they approach her or away do move; 

So doth she as the shopman in his door 

Whose friendship is commercial to the core. 

XVI 

You smile to hear about this little drab. 

And sneer at her small taw dry pleasure-house, 
And say, "What if its greasy walls could blab 

And tell strange stories of obscene carouse, — 
Of drunken men and undressed women wild 

With madness of the memories of their past. 
Drowning their misery in streams defiled — 

Polluted remnants of our town, outcast." 

And I should answer you in sober truth, 
"God sits beside her in the window there, 

He understands the old man and the youth. 
He understands the value of her ware; 

She goes not cheaply, she shall be repaid 

For every harm their drunken lust hath made." 

168 



XVII 

■ See how the city sleeps beneath the night 

In quietness while all her lamps burn low 
Save here, where in a glare ol crimson light 

Gay painted women wander to and fro, 
Or peer from open casements roguishly, . 

With full busts breaking from the careless lace, 
The outward sign of inward jollity, — 

It is the city's human marketplace! 

Here you can buy, good brother, at a price. 
Soft, warm, white woman-flesh desirable, 

Here you may see spread out many a device 
To lure young blood in paths of death and hell ; 

And yet, and yet, good brother, wit you well 

A market that hath finer goods to sell ? 

XVIII 

Out of clear wells of undefiled repose, 

Exhaustless as the mountain brooks that spring 
From melting waters of eternal snows, 

The pitchers for my daily need I bring; 
All day I hurry to and fro in toil. 

All day I labor in the dust and heat. 
All night these waters wash away the soil 

And leave me in the morning clean and sweet. 

I know not how, I cannot even guess 

The magic of this ministry of joy, 
But gone is all the stain and bitterness 

And I am once more nothing but a boy 
Ready to rise and greet the glowing day. 
With fortitude to fight, spirit to play. 

169 



XIX 

We wrap our necks about with mufflers warm, 

We clothe ourselves in skins of seal and cow, 
We shed the rain and strive to cheat the storm 

By bundling up our bodies anyhow; 
We build us walls of brick and wood and mud, 

We light huge fires to keep away the frost, 
We drink hot drinks to wake our freezing blood, 

And hold back Winter thus at any cost. 

But by and by comes Winter's brother. Death; 

We hear him rattling at the window panes, 
We feel the icy terror of his breath 

Come creeping, creeping all along our veins; 
Build up the fires, then, pile the clothes about, 
But never think to keep this beggar out. 

XX 

Wife, you are anxious, you go up and down 

Now troubled over this, now over that; 
Your sweet face puckered in an ugly frown 

Because, forsooth, young Tommy needs a hat, 
Or Billie's Sunday pants are wearing out, 

Or Susan's cold is really getting worse — 
To see your face I'd think without a doubt 

That God had somehow botched His universe. 

But, dear, you know that He is at the front 
And wisely driving this old world of ours. 

So we need only do our daily stunt 

And strive to miss no message of the flowers. 

Sure in a providence that may not fail 

Though Billie's pants wear out and Susan pale. 

170 



XXI 

Not unto us, not unto us, we say. 

The victory is thine, O Captain God! 
Let regimental bands Te Deum play 

While the bedraggled ranks behind thee plod. 
But what of the poor devils that went down 

In huge defeat upon the other side ? 
They hardly hold thee in such high renown. 

They hardly point to thee in swollen pride; 

Rather they take them to their solemn kirks 
And mumble very oddly sounding thanks. 

Praising thee for thy great and glorious works 
When thou didst hotly press them on the flanks. 

For either way the tide of battle goes 

Thou get'st the praise, men get the shame and woes, 

XXII 

I do not ask to hobnob with the great. 

Nor dine with the selfmade aristocrat. 
Nor fellowship with men of fine estate — 

The artist and the famous literat; 
But give me in the stead thereof stout churls, 

Farmers and draymen, workmen and their wives, 
The noble army of small boys and girls — 

All simple, hearty, homespun human lives. 

These are enough for an odd dub like me, 
I am not squeamish when it comes to folks. 

For, somehow, good my critics, I can see 
Beneath the horseplay and the heavy jokes 

The very truth of life embodied clear 

In these plain people infinitely dear. 

171 



XXIII 

Nay, I keep open house; no man is barred 

Or woman either. What have I to do 
Witli fashionable restrictions bleak and hard 

Dividing folk into the false and true, 
Respectable and not respectable, 

Illiterate and cultured, chaste and lewd ? 
Your gods may have their little heaven and hell, 

For me, now mind you, I am not so rude : 

All are invited and none disallowed, 

I am for all, I speak for all, I say; 
I love the thick of men, the burly crowd 

That sweats and simmers through a summer day 
For from behind these wooden masks the while 
I see young angels peer and shyly smile. 

XXIV 

Patiently watching by a dying fire. 

Waiting in silence for the word to come. 
Without repugnance and without desire, 

The old man sits within his quiet room; 
Day comes and night, the sober meal and bed, 

A neighbor's chat across the friendly smoke. 
The morning paper — all is done and said. 

And yet this old man's life is not a joke; 

It is significant at every point, 

Rooted and grounded in immortal truth; 
Not one jot meaningless or out of joint 

From his first careless days of shining youth; 
For God, forsooth, hath held him boy and man. 
And still supports him as no other can. 

172 



XXV 

To ask, to seek, to knock; these are the three 

Sole roads to paradise — none other way 
Hath been constructed nor shall ever be 

While harvest follows seedtime, night the day 
For if we have a Father, why not ask ? 

If we have lost a treasure, why not seek ? 
If doors stand all about us, 'tis no task 

To push them open for at least a peek. 

Why, why, the man's a fool in such a sort 

Who would not boldly hammer at God's door. 

Instead of fooling in his outer court. 

Hammer, I say, or bounce in on the floor; 

Laugh at the staring lackeys, take his seat 

And eat at the same board where God doth eat. 

XXVI 

I do not care what other men may do. 

What other men may say behind my back: 
To my own sense of right let me be true, 

In my own business let me not be slack; 
In many things perforce I will to fail — 

In one thing I do set me like a flint, 
And all the gates of hell shall not prevail 

To hold me back from writing out my stint. 

To outer seeming I am soft and weak. 
But at the core I am as hard as steel; 

And he who tries to knife me, so to speak, 
Is apt to come out loser in the deal : 

In the long run, my friend, in the long run, 

I shall look bravely out for Number One. 

173 



XXVII 

Dear land, the stalworth mother of us all, 
The kind stepmother of outlying breeds, 
The nurse of party strife and warring creeds. 

Mistress of v/orkmen but the magnates' thrall, 

How art thou made at times a laughing stock 
To old, wise monarchs on their rotten thronec. 
Because, forsooth, thy children mumble stones 

For bread; they cry, thy rich men mock. 

Stout mother, yet a little while, I say, 

And vengeance shall be thine for all thy poor, 
Thy balances do tremble — lo, they stop; 

Beware, ye kings, and ye rich men, I pray. 
For justice long delayed tarrieth no more, 
Christ's little ones at last come to the top. 

XXVIII 

If any man is sure, then am I sure; 

If any man may walk with clear, bold tread 
On solid pavements, builded to endure — 

So may I walk, so may I lift my head; 
God's hand stretched out before me as a guide, 

Behind me like a wall is God's right hand, 
His shoulders shielding me on either side — 

Would I be safer with an armed band ? 

Yea, God's about me like a city wall, 

His soldiers skip my lightest word to hear; 

When I sink down then shall His turrets fall, 
When I repine. His armies cease to cheer! 

Whom God releases handcuffs cannot chafe, 

And whom He saves, by heaven, are they not safe ? 

174 



XXIX 

Nay, Death, I said, hold back a while and wait. 

You grow too forward, you are overbold; 
Hardly have I emerged from childhood's gate — 

Stay but a little until I am old; 
When I am rich and fat and pompous grown, 

When all my purposes have been fulfilled. 
Why then, good neighbor Death, I am thine own, 

My day is done, my cup of life is spilled. 

Death took me at my word, and stayed his hand; 

He smiled a kindly smile, albeit grim; 
Nov/ I am old I cannot understand 

Why he should wait when I do call for him; 
All, all are gone, and I am left alone. 
While Death delays and keeps me from mine own! 

XXX 

I love this noble trade of making verse, 

I love its stern denial of all ease. 
Its rugged limits I with joy rehearse. 

And gladly mention its grave artistries; 
Men say it is an idle, empty thing. 

Vain as the dance of children — is that vain ? — 
A jingle of sweet words, a tinkling ring 

Of dainty rhymes all marching in set train. 

But poetry is something more than this, 
And poets are a stout and robust breed 

They strike good strokes, they shoot and,cannot miss, 
Their^arrows find their marks, their victims bleed; 

God's]men are^they, the little'and]the big. 

They play the pipes, the^other fellows jig. 

175 



XXXI 

A workman needing not to be ashamed, 

An accurate, painstaking, faithful soul, 
A servant of a harsh lord, yet unblamed, 

An honest craftsman in the part and whole, 
A student of the artistr)^ of words, 

Apprentice to the masters of good style, 
A lover of the English singing birds, 

A patient handler of the stone and file, 

A plain, old-fashioned joyer in fine prose, 

A reader of the literature polite, 
A scorner of the stuff called journalese, 
A seeker for the rose within the rose, 

A looker for the very light of light : 
Good Lord, I pray thee, let me be as these. 

XXXII 

Now fair and softly, good my soul, I say; 

Compose yourself, this work needs perfect nerve; 
Be as the celebrated surgeon, pray. 

Whose scalpel may not in the slightest swerve; 
Firm as a rock yet sensitive as sight. 

Stubborn as steel yet gentle as a breath. 
See how painstakingly he works aright 

Deep in the dark dividing life and death. 

So sure, so poised, so absolutely true. 
Must work the poet fashioning his song. 

Sternly repressing every mood undue, 
Subduing self in labors stern and long, 

Coming at last to play a handsome part 

Among the scanty few who knovv their art. 

176 



XXXIII 

A woman, healthy, vigorous, and fresh. 

With limber, strong young body, clean and good; 
A perfect equipoise of soul and flesh. 

The apotheosis of maidenhood; 
She looks the whole world squarely in the face, 

From cheap and low entanglements secure; 
There is no smutch on her in any place. 

So proudly doth she bear her beauty's lure. 

Glad am I for a woman of this kind, 

Who holds her soul and her white body dear, 

And waits the perfect purchaser to find, 
The man whose soul and body are as clear 

Of the least taint of lust, the least desire 

That would annul her delicate clean fire. 

XXXIV 

If you must be a fool, then be your own; 

Don't be the fool of the first well-shaped girl; 
If you must go to hell, then go alone. 

Don't drag her down beside you in the swirl; 
Feasting or fasting, try to play the man. 

Don't be a soft and self-indulgent fool; 
Chalk out your life and adhere to the plan, . 

Boldly resolve and dare to live by rule. 

There is no woman underneath the heaven 
That's worthy of your manhood's forfeiting; 

There's but one sin forever unforgiven, 
And that is open treason to the king; 

Hold then your own, nor let your virtue slip 

At pleasure's baited trap or terror's whip. 

177 



XXXV 

Whatever else you are, young man, be clean; 

Of body as of mind be self-contained; 
Keep thou thy heart as a deep well serene, 

Unvexed by fear and by desire unstained: 
Proud are you of your muscles ? Be as proud 

Of your athletic, close-knit, well-braced soul, 
Standing out well from the surrounding crowd 

In her stern puissance of self-control. 

This is to be a victor, this to run 

A race wherein the mightiest contend; 

This is to gain a crown not lightly won 
Of such as shall continue to the end. 

The crown a woman gives to him alone 

Whose steadfast purity shall match her own. 

XXXVI 

My love for you, dear love, is love indeed, 

There is no speck nor stain in it at all, 
It is a well of water for your need. 

It is a sure salvation when you call, 
It is a song to cheer you in the dark, 

It is a voice to wake you at the dawn. 
It is a tiller for your wandering bark. 

It is a stay to rest your soul upon; 

It is all things whereof lovers of old 
Have ever sang to lute or dulcimer, 

It is all things delectable and bold 
That your own happy spirit may infer; 

Dear Love, what more is there for me to tell 

Save that I love you faithfully and well ? 

178 



XXXVII 

Together we have walked a little way, 

Together we have held communion sweet, 
And now comes round again our marriage day 

Wherein all gentle purposes do meet; 
Sweet, I do know how much you gave, how gladly; 

But do you, think you, ever realize 
How very much I loved you then, how madly. 

How still you are the same unguessed surprise ? 

Dear, we have bustled through all sorts of weather, 
We've tramped the summer meadows and the 
snow, — 

And yet to-day we take the road together 

With the same heart of hope we used to know; 

Still we go forward as of old, my wife, 

With a pathetic, blind instinct for life. 

XXXVIII 

O love, how tenderly in days gone by 

I looked upon your face and fancied there 
All the proud things that antique painters trace 

Betwixt the white curved chin and plaited hair; 
All the fair things that antique poets sing 

Of lips and tinted cheek and deep, dark eyes 
Flashing a splendor past imagining, 

Like summer lightnings out of summer skies. 

All this I saw in your fair face, O sweet. 
In days gone by. But now at last possessed 

And all enfolded thus from head to feet 

Within my arms, dear wife, — could I have guessed 

How lovely, how alluring, how divine 

Your faultless body was, and all, all mine ? 

179 



XXXIX 

I trade in thought, a huckster of the truth, 

I travel up and down and cry my wares, 
I sell the joy of life, the wine of youth, 

I have a panacea for all cares; 
I'll give you for a dollar and a half 

The grace of God in full morocco bound, 
Or hand you out a handsome epitaph 

To soothe you in your slumbers underground; 

I am for men; I cater to the crowd; 

Well heeled or poor, I suit me to all purses; 
So step up lively, none are disallowed. 

And take your pick of my artistic verses; 
Let me assure you, dear my doubting brother, 
That having read one you will read no other! 

XL 

Good, stalwart, old, familiar English books, 

Defoe and Fielding, Richardson and Sterne; 
You stout old fellows with your honest looks, 

Still may ye teach us and we duly learn 
Faith in the ordinary unschooled man 

Whose blood has not yet filtered into brain. 
Faith in the virtues of the good old plan 

Of striking stoutly and of speaking plain; 

How would ye smile at our smooth novelists, 
Mincing and mealy-mouthed, fainthearted, flat; 

How would ye swing aloft your brawny fists 
And knock these gentry into a cocked hat; 

"Give o'er," you'd say, "such a dishonest trade 

Until you've learned to call a spade a spade!" 

180 



XLI 

" How wist ye not," said the wise Twelve-year-old, 

"That I must be about my Father's work ?" 
But what he did till thirty we're not told, 

Nor why so long he waited — did he shirk ? 
All the brave years of youth he passed alone, 

Seeing, perchance, high visions, dreaming dreams, 
But living quietly, unguessed, unknown. 

And nourished by quite hidden, desert streams. 

Think! This great Jesus with his magic powers, 
With gifts and graces never since surpassed, 

Bent o'er a bench or loitered amid flowers. 
Letting youth's opportunities slip past; 

Yet after all, those three short years of work 

Transformed this world forever — did he shirk ? 

XLII 

Dry up the springs of selfishness in me, 

Wither the saps of all self-looking lust. 
And make me. Lord, by thy good counsels free. 

No more the willing bondservant of dust; 
Conform me to the image of thy mind. 

Subject me to the pattern of thy thought. 
And grant I ever more may be inclined 

To walk before thee humbly, as I ought. 

Not to be great, nor do the mighty deeds, 
Nor speak as man has never spake before; 

Not to be martyred for my crimes or creeds, 
Not to destroy an epoch or restore; 

But to walk carefully and pick my way, 

Glad to go slowly, so I do not stray. 

181 



XLIII 

The fiction writers mince, I do not mince; 

The minor poets skip, I do not skip; 
What I must say I say without a wince, 

Without a blush or curling of the lip; 
Walt Whitman freed me, why should I gigg back ? 

He showed me long ago that flesh was soul. 
That God's alive in every seam and crack 

Of this old world as well as in the whole. 

Why should men dodge this one sole theme of sex, 
Blindfold themselves and let the children grope. 

The prey of ancient thirsts that sting and vex, 
Without one honest word of doom or hope ? 

By God ! so long as God gives me to write 

I'll tell the truth about this appetite. 

XLIV 

I would henceforth be priest and king to God, 

Unto my calling kept and dedicate, 
My feet with sandals of the Good News shod. 

And girt about with truth inviolate; 
Sceptered with righteousness and crowned with love. 

And clothed with more than regal innocence — 
How should the daughters sing for joy thereof, 

The young men run to me for a defence. 

Poet of Christ, and priest of the Most High, 
Master, because the bondservant of all : 

Take up thy task, arise and prophesy. 
Ordain thy laws before the night shall fall; 

Thou hast a little time wherein to teach 

Ere God shall push thee out of all men's reach. 

182 



XLV 

Sin, and the mark of it is on your face, 

Lie, and your eyes the fault at once betray; 
Think not by looks affected to efface 

The secret wrong that you wrought yesterday; 
For every act goes on and on and on 

Piling results according to its kind; 
The evil that you thought was dead and gone, 

Before to-night may smite you deaf or blind. 

We live eternal lives; our thoughts go out 

Like kind, good-natured creditors from home, 

But soon or late return without a doubt. 
And then the day of settlement is come; 

Yet every hour these usurers do trace 

Their statements of account across our face! 

XLVI 

To husband, to heap up, to hoard, to save. 

To patch and plan and skimp from day to day, 
Through a long thrifty lifetime to the grave, 

Making a little go far, as they say — 
This is the aim of countless human lives. 

This is the substance of their whole career; 
Grandparents, fathers, mothers, children, wives. 

All walking in a palsy of low fear: 

What if John lose his job, or Susan wed 
Improvidently, or the barn should burn, 

Or doctor bills pile up, or Uncle Ned 

Come home to live, or markets take a turn ? 

Why, when I have to figure close as that, 

I'll quit the game. It's God's turn at the bat ! 

183 



XL VII 

'Tis meat and drink to me to watch a fool, 

Especially your female fool, your chit 
Who would mark out the heaven of heaven by rule, 

As for the sea, doth she not measure it ? 
I mean, for here I sound a bit obscure, 

Your woman with the itch for overseeing 
Church, state, the redlight district, or the poor — 

A meddlesome, important, comic being. 

She goeth to and fro upon the earth. 

Like Satan, seeking whom she may devour; 

Princess of prudes, a foe to honest mirth, 
She hath a name to live her little hour; 

But in her house she showeth at her worst, 

Her children all rise up and call her cursed. 

XLVIII 

The trouble with us poets, dear my friend, 

Is not so much our lack of common sense, 
As that we buy and sell, we get and spend. 

Without your bluff and sturdy confidence; 
We see a shadow that you do not see. 

We see a sword where everything invites, 
We see defeat in smug prosperity, 

And dangers where you only see delights. 

So cursed are we with this clear intuition, 
We pause in doubt, we halt us in the way; 

Why so much haste to better our condition 
When it is utterly at best to-day ? 

When God's your banker, need you get and spend 

As if it were )^our last chance, good my friend ? 

184 



XLIX 

My Lord and God, how shall I turn a phrase 

Close-packed with thought and jingling with a 
rhyme, 
To proffer thee in lieu of better praise 

At this fair festival of Easter time ? 
How shall I laud thee with dull, o'er-used words 

When this reviving season wakes again 
Choirs upon choirs of smug, well-meaning birds, 

Whose little voices do not praise in vain ? 

If I could raise my head like theirs in free 
And perfect confidence in my small fate. 

Could seek my bed and board, like them, from thee. 
And sing thy mercies till the day grows late — 

My Lord and God, then might my spirit raise 

To thee an adequate and well-timed praise. 

L 

If I were well to do as some folks are, 

I'd hie me to the city by first train, 
I'd pick me out a bright red motor-car — 

By Jiminy, but wouldn't I feel vain! 
I'd call it " scarlet rash " or " shooting star," 

Or maybe I should name it after Jane; 
I'd learn to run it without jerk or jar, 

And for a spell have "bubbles" on the brain; 

I'd drive it every day when work was done, 

I'd go the limit, joying in its speed; 
I'd never mind the weather, rain or sun, 

With Jane beside me what else should I need ? 
Before us the long road of love serene, 
Behind us — a faint smell of gasolene. 

185 



LI 

My Pegasus is something of a plug; 

He's broken-winded, rather off his feed; 
It irks him much my lightest verse to lug, 

He's not a model of a winged steed: 
I'd be inclined, could I but raise the price. 

To put the poor old fellow out to grass, 
And buy a motor-car all new and nice — 

But let that vain and idle vision pass ! 

I must plod on along the dusty road — 
Let other poets sing at heaven's gate; 

I am content if he will bear my load 

And bring me home though tired out and late; 

Yet even now, sometimes he soars so high 

I bump me on the pavements of the sky! 

LII 

My good old pipe! Have I a better friend ? 

A surer solace for the ills of life ? 
What quicklier brings a case of blues to end, 

Or softlier soothes the sullen stress of strife ? 
Where shall I turn save to thy gentle blend 

When I have had a quarrel with my wife ? 

Books ? They are good, but soon turn dull and stale. 

Food ? It suffices but a little while. 
Men ? When you most lean on them they do fail. 

Women ? There's danger lurks within their smile. 
But a good pipe with good tobacco filled 

Hath something in it, mind you, strikes the spot; 
They talk of nectar by the gods distilled — 

Would I trade with 'em for it ? I euess not! 



186 



LIII 

When Pegasus should wear the bridle, I 

Slip on the sonnet-form; it fits him well; 
Down drops his head wonted to rear too high, 

And he is ready to go slow a spell. 
A quiet trot, a gentle amble, that 

Is all he dares attempt with such a bit, 
It checks him every way so neat and pat — 

I'm rather glad the Dagoes thought of it. 

Still, it has defects, like all mortal things, 
And though it saves me many an ugly fall 

From too much trust of Pegasus his wings. 
Yet see — once stopped, he will not go at all; 

The devil's in the sonnet, when half through 

Your thought you have to stop — much as I do. 

LIV 

The little squad marched solemnly away 

To shoot the pale deserter at the dawn; 
"It's discipline, it's life," my comrades say. 

And turn again to breakfast with a yawn; 
And yet 'tis pretty hard on that poor devil. 

When all the woodland birds have just begun, 
To stand him up blindfolded on the level 

And pump him full of bullets from a gun. 

His crime was cowardice, no more or less. 
And discipline is discipline, I know, 

And yet, and yet — my comrades, I confess 
I rather hate to see the fellow go; 

For I myself have failed too many times 

To be other than pentle with men's crimes. 



187 



LV 

He came to-day. Rattat upon the door 

His knuckles sounded; yea, he waited not 
For me to open — stepped in on the floor 

With a glad whoop, as jolly as a sot. 
We sat together all the morning through. 

Smoking and talking as old comrades use; 
Telling odd stories — some belike were true! — 

As full of meat as oranges of juice; 

And when at last he rose to go away. 

My good Lord took me by the hand and said: 

"Brother, 't has been an excellent fine day. 

The talk was good; we have been well i-sped." 

But much I marveled when that he was gone, 

That we no word of faith had touched upon. 

LVI 

O masters of our stalwart English prose, 

O makers of our ringing English rhyme. 
Ready to give and take immortal blows, 

Stout, honest commentators of your time; 
Where shall we find such stingins satirists. 

Such fresh sweet music from what dewy meads, 
Such grave and tender-hearted humanists, 

Among our sleek and cultured modern breeds ? 

They say we come too late, art's handicap; 

We must pick here and there a pretty phrase, 
And now and then give vice a gentle rap. 

And now and then give virtue scanty praise; 
Not so, by God, I say, ye masters old, 
We also may be arrogant and bold. 

188 



JUN 1 '508 



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